Mindful Eyes
by JadeSullivan
Summary: Sequel to Emerald Eyes; AU--The summer before 3rd year brings new obstacles for Harry and Snape, especially when the Potions master realizes he isn't the only one minding the Boy Who Lived.
1. Only a Fortnight

**Disclaimer****: All recognizable settings and characters of the Harry Potter series belong to J.K. Rowling. **

**Story Notes****: Sequel to **_**Emerald Eyes**_**; AU; takes place during the summer before Harry's 3****rd**** year; a Snape mentors Harry story (NO slash).**

**Beta****: ObsidianEmbrace (Thanks, Tabitha!)**

**Author's Notes****: Thank you to everyone who has decided to continue reading on in the **_**Emerald Eyes **_**universe :-)**** I've appreciated all of your reviews and encouraging messages over the year, as I've trudged through my first **_**official**_** year of teaching. I hope you enjoy the sequel! **

* * *

**Mindful Eyes**

**Chapter 1: Only a Fortnight**

Harry shifted against the tree trunk he was leaning against and closed his eyes with a sigh.

The weather in Surrey was hotter than usual today. Even the bark, clinging in odd clumps to the enormous, ugly tree sprouting out of the Dursleys' back yard, felt warm and itchy against Harry's back. A patch of damp t-shirt clung to his sweaty skin, but Harry doubted that a little more dirt from the tree would make any difference. He'd been at Privet Drive for over a fortnight, and in all that time, none of his clothes, except a handful of dingy underwear he'd washed four nights ago in the bathroom sink, had seen laundry soap or even fresh water.

But Harry was hardly worried. Aunt Petunia would give in sooner or later, most likely when she realized that the dirt streaks along his sleeves and the knees of his saggy jeans were becoming noticeable to the neighbors.

Grinning to himself, Harry wiggled his back against the tree trunk and scraped his seat along the ground; he could almost feel the dirt ingraining into the worn-out denim. Trudging into supper at half-past seven smelling of grass and grime on such a humid day would be the final straw for Aunt Petunia.

Without a doubt, a small pile of his soiled clothes would be in the washing machine by nightfall.

That is, unless Uncle Vernon was in one of his _moods_. In that case, his uncle would be shouting at Harry instead for getting his trousers so grubby…and then shouting at Harry _again_ for being the cause of his sore throat…

Harry stopped wiggling. He wasn't in the mood for cleaning his uncle's spittle off of his glasses.

Sticking his feet out in front of him, Harry sighed again, louder this time. The sun was a soft orange now, and it flickered through the leafy branches of the tree in Mrs. Figg's yard.

His uncle would be home very soon, followed by Dudley, who would be panting from the heat as he attempted to pry his enormous rump out of the backseat of Piers' mother's Volkswagen. Vernon would complain about the lack of air conditioning in the office and Dudley would whine about the scanty amount of butter on his cinema popcorn.

Harry wrinkled his nose at the thought. With the sun out of his eyes now and the occasional wisp of a lukewarm breeze blowing through his fringe, he tried his best to shrug away the notion of such impending doom. As always, he was determined to enjoy these Dursley-free moments as long as possible.

Listening to the screech of crickets off in the distance, Harry picked up the heavy book that was lying next to him in the grass and opened it to the page he'd folded over only ten minutes before. Balancing the binding between his knees, Harry hunched over his text, _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot, and ran his finger down the last paragraph in the third chapter, searching, once more, for any information on witch burnings for Professor Binns' essay. Finding nothing after several minutes, Harry snapped the book closed and tossed it back on the grass.

He could look again tomorrow.

_Tomorrow_, Harry thought, dejectedly. _A whole twenty-four hours. _He clunked the back of his head against the trunk as he dug the worn heels of his trainers into the dirt, semiconsciously flicking his thumb along the edge of the locket under his t-shirt; the metal had been sticking to his clammy skin all afternoon.

Suddenly, Harry heard the swift grinding of the glass door sliding open. He twisted around, biting his lip when he saw Vernon's backside wedged into the open space.

"I told him it needed to be done by _today_, Petunia!" Vernon's voice wafted through the screen insert in the open window; he had paused, one foot still over the threshold.

Harry cringed and held his breath as he peeked around the thick tree trunk. Vernon's pudgy finger was pointing at the flower bed that lay alongside the concrete porch.

"Give the boy a simple, ruddy task and see what he does! Defiance, Petunia! Defiance, plain and simple!"

"You said it had to be done by the _weekend_," Harry whispered to himself, still watching carefully. "Not _today_…" He gritted his teeth in anger as he listened to Uncle Vernon carry on, wondering what had gotten his tent-sized knickers in a twist. _Must have been an extra-bad day at work_, Harry figured.

A few seconds later, he could hear distinct _shushing_ noises coming from his Aunt Petunia, followed by her stiff muttering.

Harry knew his aunt was concerned about the neighbors overhearing, like always. He didn't need to have Hermione's IQ to figure _that_ out.

"…Dudders will be home any minute now," Petunia said more clearly. "Wash up, dear."

"Well, if the boy thinks I'm waiting even a _second_ on him to come traipsing in from _his_ tomfoolery, he's got another thing coming, hasn't he!" Vernon growled, stepping back into the house.

Harry let his breath out.

"Why, he can just—"

"He's in the yard, Vernon."

An awful silence.

Harry's teeth worried at his lip until he saw the glass door slide the rest of the way open, banging against the opposite side.

Jerking back around, Harry thought fast. At the last second, he caught sight of _A History of Magic_. Harry sucked in a sharp breath, his stomach crinkling. He'd be in massive trouble if Vernon knew he'd picked the lock to rescue his school books from the cupboard under the stairs.

If only his uncle had worked a bit later, like he usually did in the summer when it stayed light outside until nine, Harry could have sneaked the book back upstairs, past his aunt, who, by this time, never paid attention to anything but the temperature of the pot-roast.

But it was Friday—of course it was. And Vernon _rarely_ stayed at work past seven on a Friday.

_Idiot_, Harry chided himself. _How could you be so stupid_?

"Ah ha!"

Harry started in surprise, shoving the textbook underneath his thighs. Vernon glowered down at him; his eyes were slits above his splotchy, swollen cheeks.

"Thought you could hide from me, didn't you, boy! Lazing about like a no good—"

"I'm not hiding…"

"Oh ho!" Vernon chortled, throwing his head back slightly. "You're _not_, are you?"

Harry furrowed his brow in annoyance, but he bit the inside of his bottom lip again to keep from saying something he'd undoubtedly regret later. He shifted carefully.

"What would you call _this_, then?"

A pause.

"Well!"

Harry glanced down at his lap, willing himself to keep quiet. He would have loved very much to speak the words that were boiling inside of him, but he didn't feel like going to bed without supper tonight—his stomach had been growling for nearly half an hour.

Choosing the safe route, Harry shrugged.

Suddenly, Vernon emitted a strange, soft noise from the back of his throat; Harry sensed his uncle lunging forward but had little time to react before Vernon's large fist grabbed a handful of his t-shirt and yanked him up.

Harry could hear the faint sound of ripping as his soiled collar stretched, his trainers scrabbling in the dirt until he was finally able to slap his open palm against the tree trunk and right himself.

His uncle leaned in close, speaking in a chafing whisper. "I've had about all I can take of this _cheek_, boy!"

Harry tried to pull away, wrinkling his forehead in disgust at the close-up view he had of his uncle's sweat-soaked mustache. "I've hardly said a thing in two weeks…"

"Actions speak louder than words, now don't they!"

"I haven't done _anything_!" Harry whispered back.

"See!" Vernon rasped. "You see that!" He twisted Harry's shirt; the collar tightened uncomfortably.

"See what?"

"That _snark_," Vernon sneered. "That disgusting smirk plastered all over your freaky little face… I've seen enough of it these two weeks to last a lifetime!"

The collar digging into Harry's neck was beginning to smart. He reached back to try and loosen it, pushing against the tree with all his might. "Let me _go_."

"I'll take no orders from you, boy!"

Harry heard the sound of frantic tapping against the screen in the window, but Vernon ignored it.

"You're ripping my _shirt_…"

"That's the _least_ of your worries, isn't it," Vernon said through gritted teeth, giving Harry a good shake.

The rapping against the wire mesh intensified, and his uncle glanced away long enough for Harry to grab a hold of his t-shirt and yank it out of Vernon's white-knuckled fist. Stumbling backward, Harry's heel caught the edge of a gnarled root that protruded out of the grass, and he tumbled to the ground, bottom-first. Harry clenched his teeth at the pain that flared almost immediately.

Vernon whipped his head back around at the grassy _thud_, his lips twisted in leering triumph as he eyed a gray-faced Harry slumped on the ground, nursing a stinging hip.

"Serves you right, I say." Vernon swung away toward the house, grumbling, "Get in the house, boy, and set the table for your aunt." He waddled a few steps, and then halted, his enormous belly wobbling with the sudden movement. Turning slowly, he squinted down suspiciously at Harry.

Harry pressed his lips together as he kneaded away the last of the lingering burn with his fingertips, but he paused when he glimpsed Vernon glaring down at him…at the patch of grass behind him…

"What the ruddy hell is this?" Vernon muttered as he plodded over toward the tree again.

Forgetting his injury, Harry twisted around and reached for his book, but amazingly, Vernon was faster. Shoving Harry out of the way, his uncle dove more quickly than Harry had ever seen him move and snatched up _A History of Magic_ by its cover. The cream-colored pages fanned out, flapping loosely against each other.

Wheezing with exertion, Vernon managed to trap Harry against the trunk of the tree with one beefy knee hovering dangerously close to the boy's chest while he flipped the book closed and frowned down at the golden-stamped title along the binding.

Instantly, Vernon's face clouded like a brick-red dustbowl; a purplish vein popped out of his temple as he glowered down at his nephew.

Harry had seen that color stain his uncle's cheeks enough times to know that nothing good would follow. But his own adrenalin was pumping wildly at the moment, and Harry's sense of self-preservation was sparse. He pushed against Vernon's shin with one hand and grabbed for his History of Magic text with the other.

"Oh, no you don't!" Vernon's knee nudged Harry in the chest firmly enough to press his back up against the trunk. He was holding the book by the front cover again; Harry could see the thread of the binding begin to pull loose from Vernon's rough treatment.

"I need that for school," Harry choked out in a thin voice. He reached out for his book again, but Vernon jerked it away.

"If you think you're getting this back, boy, you've got another thing coming!"

Harry pushed against Vernon's knee again, but the bulbous joint wouldn't budge a millimeter.

"Not so mighty now, are you!"

The sound of the front door slamming and Dudley's whinging drawl wafted in from the sitting room. Sticky with sweat now, Harry tried to shove the knee away until his arms trembled. He eyed the dangling book intently.

Vernon snorted, his sour breath ruffling Harry's fringe as he bent down. "Nothing but a namby-pamby—"

"Vernon!" Petunia called from the open window. "Dinner's on the table!"

"—waste of space, you are, Potter," his uncle sneered.

Harry held his breath, his face so hot it felt close to bursting. Streaks of color danced in the corners of his vision.

"…lazy, no good…ARGH!" Vernon dropped _A History of Magic _with a strangled yelp and staggered backward.

Squeezing his knees to his chest, Harry gawked saucer-eyed at the book lying in the grass, a slim wisp of smoke curling off of its edge.

Vernon's cheeks puffed out as he frantically blew on his finger where the tiny flame had licked the skin.

Harry's heart thudded against his kneecaps, his head spinning; he curled into himself even further, waiting for Vernon's wrath to descend.

But his uncle remained planted, looking very much like an elephant attempting to balance on its hind legs. He gawked at Harry as he panted, his eyes occasionally shifting back and forth from one neighbor's fence to the next.

Harry tried to glance away from the condemning, frightened stare of his uncle, but he couldn't; it had been quite some time since Vernon had been the victim of his accidental magic, but Harry easily recalled the disgusted gleam in his uncle's eyes. A silent barrier that put acres between the Dursleys and him.

Harry would have preferred a blow.

Aunt Petunia called out to the both of them this time, but Harry hardly paid attention.

Stepping over the book, Vernon trudged forward without a word.

Harry waited until he heard the glass door scrape closed again; he pressed his nose against his knees, blinking through the bit of fringe that dangled in his eyes. He listened to the steady in-out rhythm of his breathing, knowing that in a few minutes, the water gathering in the corners of his vision would evaporate and the painful swelling in his throat would fade.

The locket felt heavy and irritating against his sweaty skin now, but Harry forced himself to ignore it; it had only been a fortnight after all.

He nudged the crisped edge of his History book with the toe of his trainer.

He wasn't very hungry anymore.

* * *

"…either more expansive workspace or a greater quantity of tables in the common room would be sufficient, I believe."

"Either is fine, Minerva."

"This crowding about a single table doing Merlin-knows-what with a pile of spell books is most inconvenient for their studying…and a bit irritating to witness, I might add…"

Albus' gentle eyes crinkled around the corners. "Severus, would your Slytherins benefit from additional workspace as well?"

Silence from the far side of the table, save a few clinks of a coffee-soaked spoon against the inside of a teacup.

"Severus?"

"He's not listening, Albus," the elderly woman muttered tightly. "Now about—"

"The _library_ provides sufficient workspace, does it not?" Severus tipped out a spoonful of lukewarm coffee back into the half-empty cup and curled his lip at the now-stale brew.

He could feel their stares, but he ignored the both of them.

"Unfortunately," Albus began among the stiff silence, "you may find the addition of tables in the Gryffindor common room rather fruitless, I'm afraid—perhaps your students simply enjoy each other's company during study-time." The headmaster smiled softly once again.

Severus sniffed to himself; such a stupid matter of discussion. Minerva McGonagall's concerns for the upcoming school year, as always, were beyond trivial.

Sensing their eyes locking over the top his head, Severus' scalp crinkled.

He excused himself as promptly as possible, his meager stack of buttered toast untouched and soggy.

As Severus stalked through the corridors leading to the dungeons, he drank in the cool, damp air washed over his face. Though the summer sun was warm and cheerful this morning, Severus relished in the dimness of his chambers, the candlelight, magnified and flickering along the clammy-looking walls.

The stinging headache that had been pounding through his temples since sunrise began to ebb.

Throwing open the door to his private storage room, Severus shoved the rolling ladder ahead of him, barely catching it by a rung before it slammed against stacks of shelves, full of half-empty bottles of potions ingredients.

He examined the row of stained vials that were level with his head. Squinting against the patchy darkness, Severus carefully nudged aside a group of empty glass containers to peer into the back of the shelf.

Nothing.

Severus cursed under his breath, the vials clinking as he withdrew his hand.

_Monkshood_…

Albus had requested it be restocked. Though Severus hadn't touched the potent plant for years, he didn't question it. The headmaster was habitually strange.

Severus continued searching.

Monkshood _and_ bloodroot.

Aside from a few dried leaves around the rim, Severus was fresh out of both. He should have taken inventory weeks ago.

Running his palm down his forehead, Severus squeezed his eye sockets with his thumb and fingertips; he sighed heavily. Searching the splintery shelves, Severus collected two more vials, three-quarters of the way empty—hellebore and root of asphodel.

Clamping his hands around the lot, Severus bumped the ladder with his elbow, scooting it aside, as he stepped toward the arched doorway.

Suddenly, Severus stopped where he stood, catching sight of something; he gazed down at the vials gleaming in the lantern's light.

Hellebore had been misspelled on the label; the silent 'E' on the end was missing. It was a simple mistake, but penned in too-thick, adolescent cursive, the blunder, to Severus, stood out like blood against cotton.

He stared at the vacant space where the letter should have been—ran his thumb over it, smearing the ink.

Severus closed his eyes; traces of a headache slashed along his brow again as he attempted to clear his mind. But it was useless.

They _both_ knew the incantation for the portkey. And the boy was old enough to remember it; Severus had reviewed it with him countless times. Made him repeat it back, even. _Countless_.

He was _fine_.

Besides, it had only been a measly two weeks.

_Hardly a fortnight_…

A silence passed before Severus realized the dusty bottles he'd been clutching to his abdomen were warm, somewhat clammy. He had no idea how long he'd been standing here.

Severus cleared his throat, the last of the fog evaporating from his senses. Easing the door closed with the heel of his shoe, he swept toward his chambers.

TBC…

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**Thank you for checking out Chapter 1! **

**Up Next: Chapter 2 -- Early Arrival**


	2. Early Arrival

**Chapter Two: Early Arrival**

Dudley was disgusting.

The corners of his mouth were sticky with the drippy fudgesicle he had his lips around…even Dudley's fingernails were dirty with melted chocolate.

Harry made a face from the opposite side of the sitting room as he watched the frozen dessert slowly dribble onto his cousin's trousers, _plinking_ against the fabric like a leaky spigot. If Harry'd been craving an after-dinner sweet before, he was definitely cured of that now…

Slouching into the arm of the sofa like a rag doll, Harry glanced away; he couldn't witness another second of this. He rested his ear on the crook of his arm.

"Want one, do you?"

Harry kept his eyes trained on the flowery pattern of the sofa skirt. "Not anymore…"

A large drop of fudge plopped onto Dudley's zipper and rolled down.

Dudley gave a quiet, grubby snort. "Yeah, right, Potter."

Rolling his eyes, Harry pretended not to hear him. Instead, he listened to the clinking sound of forks scraping the last bit of gravy from china plates; he'd be called in to wash the dishes any minute now.

Harry's stomach sank with disappointment. He'd wanted very much to go to the park after dinner; the sky was still clear and blue, and Harry would have been able to have a go on the old rusty swing for a while before it got dark. He wasn't even all that interested in playing; Harry simply wanted to go somewhere—anywhere—to get away from Aunt Marge.

She had come early this year. And she was worse than Harry remembered…

Three days ago, Harry had overheard Vernon talking to his sister on the telephone, persuading her to wait until September to visit. At the time, Harry hadn't even known Marge was planning on visiting at all, and the prospect of not seeing her blotchy, mustached face for another year was heartening.

But Harry's happiness was short-lived, because twenty-four hours later, there she stood—mustache and all. Aunt Marge had even brought her ugly dog, Ripper; Harry'd already soaked two pairs of socks from stepping in puddles of slobber.

It wasn't the drool, however, that bothered Harry. It was Marge. It was the way she had been eyeing him disdainfully ever since she had arrived—like a tiger, ready to pounce…

"You!"

Harry jumped, startled, his heart slithering down his insides.

Dudley snickered and hoisted himself up—twice—before waddling to the kitchen.

Vernon was pointing a beefy finger in Harry's direction. "Enough of this lazing about, boy—you've had your dinner; now you've got chores."

"You've only just finished eating…"

Vernon's lips twitched as he shifted his stance dangerously.

"All right," Harry muttered quickly, pushing himself to his feet, "all right. I'm going."

"You'd best be!" His uncle plodded heavy-footed up the stairs, heading straight for his master bathroom, no doubt.

Sighing, Harry dragged his way toward the kitchen. But Marge's booming voice had him skidding to an immediate halt.

"You go on and run your errands, Petunia, while it's still light out. I'll fix one up for Dudders…"

Harry smashed his shoulders up against the wall, sucking in his belly and grimacing as Marge's very round rear end backed out of the kitchen, nearly pinning him to the corridor wallpaper. Harry held his breath as she inched closer. _Stop stop stop stop stop stop—_

"Oof!"

_Shit_.

A blurred mass of wiry hair and wool jumper invaded Harry's vision; he clung to the wall behind him, hoping he hadn't just been flattened like a hotcake.

Harry felt Marge's grip on his arm before he saw her face. She immediately hauled him back into the sitting room, scolding him along the way.

"What are you _doing_?" Harry cried out, trying to twist his arm away from her. "I've got to wash the dishes…"

"The only thing you need to do is keep that nasty mouth of yours _shut_!" She gave him a brisk shove toward the sofa; her cheeks were ruddy with a mix of exertion and embarrassment at being caught off-guard by the boy she hated the most. "Strutting about this house like you own it…getting underfoot just like a delinquent would!"

Harry scowled at her. "I _live_ here."

"You're _kept_ here, boy, by the goodness of your aunt and uncle. Now sit!" Marge yanked on her too-tight cardigan, composing herself. "You'll come when you're called."

Furious heat rose up in Harry's stomach like a volcano. He stood his ground but remained silent, remembering Vernon's warning. Wiping his sweaty hands along the hips of his jeans, he glared at Marge's back.

Dudley peeked around the doorway; he gave Harry a sticky, pug-faced grin.

"Let's get you that chocolate sundae, Dudders," Marge muttered sweetly, holding out her hand. Harry wouldn't have been surprised if she'd folded another twenty pound note in her palm. "Growing, _good_ boys deserve their sweets, now don't they?"

Tucking a fat arm behind his back, Dudley gave Harry the finger as he shuffled alongside his aunt.

Harry blinked several times until his eyes stopped stinging; his heartbeat slowed but he was suddenly left with a headache. Balling his hands into fists, he rubbed at his brow line with his knuckles. Marge's sickly-sweet cooing drifted in from the kitchen; Aunt Petunia must have gone out the side door, because Harry couldn't hear out her quick, _pat-patting_ footsteps across the linoleum anymore.

Plopping down on the sofa again, Harry fought the urge to chuck a square pillow into one of the clustered portraits of Dudley hanging on the wall.

Nearly three weeks into the summer holiday, and Harry was ready to crack. This was unbearable.

Even relabeling six-hundred and eighty varieties of potions ingredients for Professor Snape over the past month had been more enjoyable than this…

Harry swallowed hard and looked down at his lap, picking at a hangnail on his thumb until the skin reddened. Somewhere outside, the ice cream lorry puttered by, its tune tinkling in Harry's ears. With Uncle Vernon holed up in the loo, and Aunt Marge fawning over Dudley, now would have been an opportune time for Harry to dive under his bed and gather up the small pile of five-pence coins he'd collected over the past few summers. But he didn't; even the idea of buying an ice cream with his own bit of Muggle money held little appeal at this point.

Hardly five minutes later, Marge barked at him from the kitchen; taking a deep breath, Harry counted to ten; his stomach was still twisting with resentment.

Fifteen.

Then twenty seconds.

_We will remain here for as long as it takes for you to get your temper under control_, Snape had once told him. _Take deep breaths_.

Harry continued to breathe evenly, his eyes closed. He could do this.

Twenty-five...twenty-six…twenty—

"Boy!"

Harry opened his eyes; hot knives stabbed at his gut again.

Well…at least he tried.

-------

"Filthy…this one needs washing again."

Harry flinched as a perfectly clean plate splashed back into the water. He watched it sink slowly beneath the bubbles. His face flamed hot. Harry'd been scrubbing dishes for nearly a half-hour and this was the fourth plate Marge had forced him to rewash.

She remained behind him, breathing down his neck as she waiting for Harry to plunge his hands back into the dishwater.

Clenching his teeth, Harry squelched his fingers around in the wet, yellow gloves before rubbing a rubbery knuckle against a sweaty itch on his forehead.

"Well?" She nudged Harry between his shoulder blades. "Get on with it!"

"I don't need to be _watched_, you know…"

"Ha! Ripper could do a better job at washing these plates, boy!" Marge gripped the top of Harry's head and turned it, forcing his attention back to his work.

Harry jerked away from her, pulling a face. "I'm _doing it_."

Pinching her cracked lips together, Marge's face became as purple as Uncle Vernon's. Harry barely saw her hand darting out, but he certainly _felt_ it squeezing the base of his neck. She jerked him close.

"Now, _listen_ here, you—"

"Get off!" Harry twisted his neck against her fingertips. He didn't care about being grounded in his bedroom for the whole summer; he didn't care Vernon if "knocked the stuffing" out of him; Hogsmeade be damned—he'd make _Snape_ sign the bloody form. Harry wasn't going to let Marge take it out of him, a blotchy-faced, furry-lipped cow who wasn't even his _real_ aunt…

Somehow, Harry managed to wiggle out of her grasp; he'd banged his toe in the process, but the pain hardly registered. He glared at Marge, breathing heavily through his nose.

Harry heard Dudley's chair creak behind him at the kitchen table; he knew his cousin was enjoying the confrontation, but Harry was hardly concerned. A familiar warm tingle was prickling through his scalp, all the way down to his toenails.

"Marge?" Vernon must have muted his television program.

A pause. Marge pierced Harry with a look of pure hatred. "What is it, Vernon?"

Harry glanced down at the small puddle of water his dripping glove had created on the counter top.

"Send the boy to bed," his uncle called back in a thin-sounding voice. "He can finish his chores tomorrow."

"The lazy little brute will finish what he was told to do, if I have anything to say about it."

Another pause, longer this time.

Harry bit down on the insides of his lips; the tickle in his scalp intensified.

"Mmmm," Marge grunted, a smirk of satisfaction twisting her lips. "Exactly. Back to work." She grabbed Harry by his shirt sleeve and yanked him toward the sink.

Skidding on the rug, Harry caught himself against the edge of the countertop.

"…as worthless as that bloody, low-life _Potter_…" she muttered in disgust.

But before Harry could react, Marge had flipped her attention to the _beloved_ one in the room. "Ah, finished already, Dudders?"

Dudley dazedly glanced down at his ice cream bowl, as though just noticing it was empty.

"A healthy appetite makes for a strong, _sensible_ boy, now doesn't it?" Marge lumbered over to the table, leaning over to pinch Dudley's pillow-like cheeks. "Not a puny ounce in this one, Vernon!" she called over her shoulder before shooting daggers toward the sink. "Unlike _some_…"

Harry wrenched the stopper from the drain with shaky fingers. _…for as long as it takes… Take deep breaths—_

"You can't possibly be finished!" Marge boomed. "Not even the head dishwasher at Wimpy can—"

"I'm putting new water in!" Harry gripped the edge of the sink and blinked hard at the grayish water swirling down the drain.

Marge's eyes narrowed and dark red splotches appeared on her cheeks again; she opened her mouth wide as if to shout…

Ripper barked loudly at the front door.

Snapping her teeth together, Marge frowned and peered over her shoulder. "Ah!" she exclaimed, scooting off into the living room. "I'll fetch the dog, Petunia, don't mind him!"

"I've got him, Marge!" Vernon called back.

The screen door clattered as Petunia squeaked from the driveway.

Ignoring them all, Harry shoved the stopper back in the drain and squeezed the bottle of lemon dish detergent so hard that half of the basin was coated with the shiny, yellow glop. He jammed his back against the edge of the stove and waited while the sink filled with heaps of bubbles.

Only three more plates and two bowls. And then Harry would sprint off to his room and ram his desk chair underneath the door handle so _no one_ could get in if they tried. There, alone, he would smash his face into his pillow and scream every foul word he'd ever learned; all reserved for one pseudo Aunt Marjorie Dursley.

She made Uncle Vernon seem like Albus Dumbledore.

The screen door creaked open again.

"I'll just take him upstairs, Petunia!" It was Marge. "You and Vernon carry on, don't mind me—quite the automobile, isn't it, Mr. Jiggery? Lovely to meet _you_, sir!"

Ripper growled, low and mean.

Harry didn't even have to glance out the window to know that his aunt and uncle were showing off Vernon's new company car. Again.

"Come on, old boy, back in the house!" The front door clicked closed. Soon, the sounds of a paper bag crinkling drifted in from the living room. "We'll give you two sweeties tonight, I think." Ripper yipped in approval.

Sighing exhaustedly, Harry tugged up his slippery dish gloves and moved his small stack of gunky plates closer to the sink.

Suddenly a wave of hot water splattered Harry in the face, taking his breath away.

He blinked rapidly behind the suds dripping down his glasses. The front of his shirt was soggy.

A tacky-coated ice cream bowl quietly submerged to the bottom of the sink; Dudley laughed his fat, blurry chuckle from behind. "Only an accident…"

Orange stars burst along Harry's vision; he'd taken more than enough.

Without thinking, Harry thrust both hands in and splashed Dudley with as much water as he could scoop up.

Both his cousin and the kitchen floor were soaked. Dudley shrieked.

A few seconds later, Marge scuttled into the kitchen. "What in the _devil's _name—Dudders!"

"He got me all _wet_, Auntie!" Dudley feigned instant tears of outrage. "He called names!"

Harry gasped. "I _didn't_! I'm as wet as Dudley is; he splashed me first!"

"_Quiet_, you!" Marge took three great strides and grabbed Harry's ear, twisting it between her fingers as she dragged him, slipping on the soapy spill, over to the opposite side of the room.

Harry winced in pain, but it didn't stop him from trying to pull away from her.

"I knew—"

_Twist._

"—the second my brother phoned—"

_Tug._

"—that it was to keep me from being exposed to your _ruffian_—"

_Pull._

"—_delinquent_—"

_Squeeze_.

"—_horrible _ways!" Marge pushed Harry's nose into the corner behind the kitchen table where Dudley had sat seconds before.

Harry clutched at his stinging ear with one hand and thrust his elbow toward Marge's soft middle with the other.

"Oh,_ no_ you don't!" She seized both of Harry's arms and held them tight to his sides, smashing his nose further into the corner. Harry struggled against her iron hold, even as she leaned down to growl in his ear. "You are positively the _vilest_ boy I have ever come across."

Harry readied his foot to camel-kick her if he had to.

"Putting you in a reform school was the best decision Vernon ever made, though I must say it hasn't done you a _bit of good_!"

"Yeah, well—"

"Your parents were no better than the filth on my shoe!" Marge continued, squeezing Harry even tighter. "And you're following _right_ in their ruddy footsteps, belittling your own cousin! Shameful…_disgusting_—"

Harry's neck prickled hot with fury and hurt. He'd stared down a basilisk, had stomached dozens of Draco Malfoy's taunts…had even dealt with Snape's searing disapproval from time to time. But this woman was downright cruel. Harry had never felt so small.

"Dudders," Marge called over her shoulder, "go and rub yourself down with a towel, dearest, and change clothes. Auntie Marge will be up in a bit. Go on, now."

Leering triumphantly, Dudley shuffled off toward the stairs.

"And _you_," Marge turned her attention back to Harry, her voice considerably quieter, "you have seen better days, boy."

"Just get _off _of me—"

"Your aunt and uncle may be hesitant to take you in hand and tame your unruly ways, but I, sir, am not."

Her hot, mothball breath made Harry's neck crinkle; he pushed against her grasp once more. "I'm barely even _related_ to you!"

Marge ignored him, leaning in even closer. "Fortunately for me, I know where your uncle keeps his belts, and there's at least _one_ in there with your name on it, boy…whether Vernon knows it or not!"

Harry stood very still. She couldn't be serious—the probability of _that_ was almost comical.

"You're smirking." Her tone was icy.

Harry licked his lips; a tingle traveled up and down his spine. "No, I'm not—"

"Think this is funny, do you?"

Silence from the corner.

"Well, _do _you?"

He could almost hear Marge's face cracking into a ruthless sneer. Perhaps the possibility wasn't comical after all. He shifted in place, trapped by her pungent breath and flanker physique.

A tense moment passed; Harry said nothing. He knew she had him exactly where she wanted him.

"Right, then." Marge straightened up. "Move from this spot while I'm upstairs, boy, and you'll be kneeling on dried kidney beans for an hour."

Harry didn't respond. Several seconds later, when Marge understood that he had no intention of doing so, she grunted and trudged toward the stairs. Ripper toddled behind at her heels.

Staring at the tiny fissures in the off-white wall, Harry bit his tongue to keep from screaming. Marge was trying to make him cry; she always did. She was trying to break him. Harry's heart pounded feverishly; he felt dizzy with anger, and as much as he hated to admit it, a small amount of fear. He was one-sixth of Marge's size—she could easily thrash him. And Uncle Vernon would do nothing to stop her. If he weren't so frightened of Harry, he would have done it years ago.

Suddenly, Harry's chest tickled peculiarly. He reached up to scratch at it and froze, his entire body flushing hotly.

The portkey. Of _course_.

_But I need my wand_, Harry mused. It was trapped in the cupboard under the stairs.

The front door opened. Twisting around, Harry caught sight of Uncle Vernon behind the mesh, holding onto the door handle—he was still gushing to the neighbors. Aunt Petunia was probably soaking up every bit of last-minute gossip.

Marge was still upstairs.

Harry had only a minute to spare, if not less.

Slipping out from behind the kitchen table, Harry tiptoed over to the rubbish drawer next to the refrigerator, where Petunia kept a pile of odds and ends. Sliding it open, Harry quickly spied a tarnished hairpin. He left the drawer open and slinked into the corridor.

The screen door creaked open.

Harry bit his lip.

"…I was _just_ telling Petunia the other day—" The door hooked into the latch again. Safe.

"Be sure to put on that jumper," Marge bellowed to Dudley from upstairs. "That's a boy—it'll warm you right up!"

Flattening out the pin with shaky fingers, Harry crouched down and stuffed the end into the lock. He knew how to open his old cupboard; he'd even figured out how to do it from the inside when his relatives were sleeping.

But Harry's adrenalin was spiraling; his hands wouldn't stop trembling.

He drew in a deep, steadying breath and held it. _Find the hole—lift up—twist to the right—bring it back down…_

Nothing.

The floor upstairs groaned with Marge's weight.

_Again_, Harry told himself desperately. _It takes two tries sometimes._

"Stay up here, Dudders."

Harry's heartbeat jerked in his throat. _Lift—twist—down..._

_Click_! His stomach flipped in victorious somersaults.

Marge was on the stairs now.

Harry threw open his cupboard and tore open his trunk. Diving in among dirty robes and chocolate frog wrappers, Harry found his wand and jerked it out. He stood and immediately reached under his shirt for the locket.

"Take care, now!" Vernon let himself in the front door. "Come along, Petunia."

His uncle halted with a start, gawping at Harry's wand with wide, terrified eyes.

Petunia's gaze followed Marge, stomping down the stairs with one of Vernon's old belts coiled underneath her armpit.

Tapping his locket twice, Harry muttered the familiar incantation. Their faces swirled as an invisible force sucked the air from Harry's lungs and spun him away from Little Whinging.

TBC…

* * *

**End Notes:** As a reminder, remember that this story is AU (not canon), so Marge's early arrival was intentional. In canon, she arrived the day after Harry's birthday. Also, for those curious, a "lorry" is a truck and a "flanker" is a rugby position, known for tackling. I'm American, so feel free to correct my wanna-be Britishness ;-)

**Author's Notes:** Thanks to those of you who took interest in this sequel and left me reviews or added this story to your alerts/favorites :-) I'm astounded by the response and really appreciate all of your kind words. The last few weeks have been very busy (I had to put my cat to sleep last Monday :-( but welcomed my first nephew on Wednesday!), so I apologize for the delay between chapters. Look for weekly updates in the future :-)


	3. All the Wrong Things

**Chapter 3: All the Wrong Things**

"No."

The word was clipped, quiet. But the negation behind it reverberated throughout the main floor corridor like a fog horn.

Severus walked several paces ahead of Professor Dumbledore with no intention of slowing down. "I cannot _fathom_ why you would even ask me to do such a thing—"

"Severus."

"I _refuse_!" Snape whipped around, his black hair nearly obstructing his vision.

Dumbledore halted gracefully, lifting his chin, and waited.

Severus recognized the deliberate patience; he snarled at it. "I have always done anything you've asked me to do, Headmaster," Severus said quietly, breathing deep, outraged breaths. "_Anything_."

A slight pause; the old man nodded once. "Yes, you have, Severus."

"And for years, I have gone about my duties, saying nothing," Snape continued, hastily tossing his hair back with his fingers. It immediately fell back into his eyes. "I've witnessed the position being filled and vacated over and _over_, Albus…and _still_, I've not argued your decision because I trust your judgment." He gazed into the headmaster's soft, unrelenting stare. "The _least_ you could do is respect that."

"I respect you very much, child—"

"Oh, you _don't_, Albus." Severus turned from him, glaring at the primordial suit of armor in front of him; he choked on the boldness of the declaration. "You _couldn't_."

"I do."

Severus swallowed, his eyes frozen ahead, unseeing. He wanted nothing more than to escape from this farce. But his feet betrayed him as usual, remained submissive of the headmaster's requests—his every word. Even when his mind clung to stubbornness.

Blinking passively, Severus forced the tension to leak from his face. "The parents will not allow it."

"They are ignorant of it, Severus."

"The faculty, then." His eyes trailed to Albus' magenta robes and held. "Surely they'll have qualms—"

"My concern rests with you." Dumbledore's lips turned with a kind smile.

The statement was piercing, in several ways, but Severus was unmoved. "You are more than aware of my opinion." He mentally prepared to flee.

"I am also aware," Albus said slowly, "of your newfound willingness to give second chances."

_You will not fail her twice_.

Severus felt his breath quicken. The words hadn't left him since they were spoken, had kept him functioning, even.

The headmaster allowed the assertion to fill the air for a while longer as he studied the thin, midnight blue embroidery around the cuff of his own sleeve, as if he'd only just discovered it.

"This is not something you can expect me to accept in a matter of minutes, Dumbledore," Severus finally muttered. "There is too much to be considered."

"Such as?"

"_Such_ _as_," Snape retorted, "the danger you're inflicting on the students. On _my_ students—"

"One's exterior is only that, Severus—misleading. It says nothing of who that person is on the inside—you of all people should know this." The headmaster raised a subtle brow at the younger professor's impatient grimace. "Harry will be fine. You'll see to that—"

"I spoke _nothing_ of Potter; he isn't one of my Slytherins."

"On the contrary," Dumbledore easily interjected, "you _spoke_ nothing of Slytherin."

Severus narrowed his gaze behind impeding, tangled strands. The headmaster was staring at him, calm among the burning silence.

"He is willing, Severus. If _you_…are willing."

There it was again—the obligatory ultimatum. Snape fought down the swell of anger in his throat; he knew in this situation, his opinion made no difference. Dumbledore had already given his word.

Albus eyed him expectantly. Severus refused to meet his gaze. "I need time, Headmaster. A day, perhaps two…"

"Take three if you wish," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling with poorly-hidden approval. He started forward. "In the meantime, I shall take afternoon tea. Come along."

* * *

Harry hit the ground so hard his kneecaps burned. A tiny ring of fireworks exploded around the irises of his eyes; his world was spinning.

He tried to inhale but coughed instead.

"Good heavens!"

Harry pressed his hands to the rug on the floor, breathing ragged, tight breaths. He was certainly in Dumbledore's office. But that was _not_ Dumbledore's voice.

"What is the _meaning_ of—Mr. Potter?"

Oh, no.

"Sorry," Harry began to say, but he only coughed again.

"How in the—no, you will _not_ get up—just breathe, Potter. You're drawing in air the wrong way."

Professor McGonagall's hands were soft and surprisingly strong on the back of his neck and forehead. All of a sudden, Harry was very embarrassed; his face stung with warmth, imagining how he must look. He wanted to run from Dumbledore's office but didn't dare.

"Can you stand now?"

Stand? Harry wanted to melt into the carpet and disappear. "Yes, ma'am."

"Slowly, then," McGonagall said as she helped steady him. For the first time, Harry noticed how much the woman towered over him. She was a head shorter than Professor Snape, but Harry felt small next to her, all the same.

Would he ever feel normal again?

"Have a seat, Potter—_slowly_." McGonagall sighed from above; Harry couldn't look at her. "You most certainly have some explaining to do, but first, you'll sit. You're looking rather poorly. Oh, I wonder—" Wringing her hands, she strode quickly to the fireplace and threw in a handful of glittery powder without hesitation. "Poppy?"

Harry peeked out from in between his fingers. Poppy?

"Madame Pomfrey?"

Harry closed his eyes, his forehead sinking back against his hands. Oh, hell.

McGonagall straightened up; her thin, gray brows were smashed together. "Left for Manchester already." She sighed again. "Well, it was worth a try. How are you feeling, Potter?"

"I'm fine," Harry said automatically, a bit cheered at Madame Pomfrey's absence. Sitting up, he tugged at the knees of his too-tight, scratchy dress trousers (Aunt Petunia wouldn't hear of jeans and t-shirts during Marge's visit).

"I'm sorry, Professor. I only meant to find—"

"Apparation is impossible on Hogwarts grounds," McGonagall muttered, mostly to herself, twisting her hands together again. "You couldn't have Apparated, Potter—not even accidentally."

Harry frowned. "Appa-what?"

"Apparated."

"I didn't do that," Harry told her. "I don't even know what that means."

"Apparation is when you—" She shook her head. "—well, it doesn't really matter. Never mind about that, Mr. Potter." She patted her bun, expelling another great_ whoosh_ of air through her nose, the way grownups do when they're trying to make sense of a situation.

Harry studied her face cautiously. "I used my locket, Professor."

Dropping her hands from her hair, McGonagall stared hard at him. "Whatever do you mean?"

"My locket," Harry repeated, reaching into the collar of his shirt. "See? Oh, hang on—it's invisible." He gave the chain a firm tug and watched it glow a brilliant violet against the skin of his hand for several seconds before returning to its original silver state. Harry held out his palm for her to see. "It's a Portkey."

"A _Portkey_?" McGonagall snatched the locket from his fingers and let it dangle, twirling, from the chain.

Harry blinked, a bit startled by her tone. "Yeah…"

"Why do you have a Portkey, Potter? Where did you get this?"

Biting his lips together, Harry hesitated for an instant. Quick, consecutive questions were never a good sign. Flushing embarrassment swept over him again, but this time, he didn't know why. Professor McGonagall had a way of doing that to him sometimes.

"Well, Potter," McGonagall demanded, "where did you find this Portkey?"

Harry wetted his lips; lying wouldn't help—he knew better than that. "I didn't find it anywhere…"

The old woman's spectacles slipped down her nose; she peered over them. "No?"

"Professor Snape gave it to me."

"_Gave _it to you?" McGonagall echoed. "Professor _Snape?_"

Harry stared at her, confused. He nodded. "So I could use it if I needed to—"

"Use it if you _needed_ to?"

McGonagall was gawking at him as if he were speaking Norwegian. "Didn't you know he gave it to me?" Harry asked, even though the answer was more than obvious.

As expected, McGonagall sniffed in response. "I seem to know very little these days."

Harry glanced down at his hands; he didn't know what to say.

"All right, Potter," Professor McGonagall said, somewhat kindly, "out with it."

Harry's stomach gave a sudden jolt, but he continued rubbing his thumb across his knuckles, staring at the ridges. "Out with what?"

Suddenly, Harry felt fingertips underneath his chin, lifting it until he came eye-to-eye with McGonagall's classic, stony expression that not even Snape could combat. "Do you think I just became Head of Gryffindor house yesterday, Mr. Potter?"

"No…"

"Then why, may I ask," she began," would you expect me to believe that you simply popped onto Hogwarts grounds for no reason?

Harry squirmed in his seat; McGonagall removed her fingers from under his chin and tucked them into the crook of her elbow, crossing her arms in front. Her bifocals slipped down again as she continued to frown down at him.

"Erm…I didn't say that." He hadn't, had he?

"Are you aware of the hazard of using Portkeys alone, young man?"

Harry furrowed his brows at her; he was beginning to get annoyed at the ridiculousness of it all. "Why am I in trouble? Snape's the one that gave it to me…"

"You could have been transferred to a hut in Timbuktu for all we know!" the woman ranted in mutters, pacing a bit. She massaged her forehead wearily. "Giving a Portkey to a child…the very idea."

"I'm nearly thirteen, Professor—"

"It isn't _age_ that matters, Potter." McGonagall stopped pacing; her lips were pinched. "Look at the size of you."

Swallowing against his still-dry throat, Harry gazed down at himself; he tugged on his trousers again, making sure his ankles were covered. He wasn't _that_ small; his toes even brushed against the floor now. Sure, he was skinny but—

"And _think_ of the circumstances!"

Harry flicked his eyes up. "What circumstances?"

McGonagall paused, as if in thought, her lids fluttering behind her glasses. She gave him a wary once-over. "Well…" Clearing her throat, she delicately lifted her rims and set them on the bridge of her nose. "Never mind that, Mr. Potter."

Harry's insides were slowly shriveling with irritation. He liked Professor McGonagall an awful lot, but when she started in on _this_, Harry found it hard to remember his manners. She wasn't being fair.

"Look, Professor," Harry said, "I'm really sorry we didn't tell you about the Portkey. I thought Professor Snape…or Dumbledore would've told you. " He felt himself going pink again—he really hadn't planned on embarrassing himself further by telling her about Aunt Marge. But what choice did he have? McGonagall's glare could have fried an egg. "It's just…I used it because—"

"Ah," McGonagall interrupted, reaching into a pocket of her robes. She pulled out a small, stone-studded bronze disk, gave the glowing green jewel and the clear one in the middle a quick glance, and slipped it back in her pocket. "Just in time. Come along, young man. We shall settle this properly."

The tips of Harry's toes tingled with a peculiar mixture of relief and disappointment. He stood slowly, fixing his horrendously snug clothing as best as he could. "Settle what?"

"The headmaster has returned…with Professor Snape, no less." She held out a beckoning hand, pressing it against Harry's shoulder when he came close enough; she steered him toward the exit. "Keep up, now."

As Harry walked alongside his Head of House, his stomach twisted with pangs of regret. In a matter of minutes, the three people he respected the most would know everything—Aunt Marge…the fudgesicle…the corner…her terrible insults…

Being small wasn't Harry's only deficiency anymore.

He was weak.

* * *

McGonagall kept her hand on Harry's shoulder the entire time she marched him down the corridor; if this had been Snape, Harry would have tried to wiggle away from him, insisting that he could walk on his own. Snape wasn't usually bothered about things like that. But this was McGonagall. Pulling away from her when she was in a crabby mood was nothing short of a death wish.

"Where were they?"

McGonagall continued staring straight ahead. "Where were whom, Potter?"

"Professor Dumbledore…and Snape—where were they?"

"No, we'll turn here," McGonagall said as she clutched Harry's shoulder and guided him to the left. "The headmaster had business to attend to and he wished for Professor Snape to accompany—keep up, please."

"I'm _trying_," Harry mumbled under his breath; the stone floor was knobby and his legs were short; it would have been easier to run down the corridor.

From a distance, Dumbledore and Snape rounded a corner—Dumbledore chatting pleasantly, Snape concrete-faced and silent.

"Again, perfect timing—Severus!"

Harry tucked in his shoulders, fixing his eyes on a low portrait of an elderly witch hanging on the wall. His effort was pointless, however, as he could feel Snape looking at him, even from fifty meters away.

"Why, Minerva," Dumbledore began by way of greeting, "and…hello, Harry."

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Harry dug his toes into the soles of his shoes. "Hello."

"Oh, hello, Albus," McGonagall replied offhandedly. "Everything is in order—Poppy has left for Manchester, and I believe Filius left for his holiday before you and Severus Floo'd to…" She trailed off, giving Harry the tiniest of side-glances. "Hagrid is still here, of course."

"Thank you, Minerva—"

"Potter, what are you doing here?" Snape cut in gruffly.

Keeping his hands deep in his trousers pockets, Harry slowly raised his eyes, surveying Snape's expression. His eyes were dark; his face spoke of nothing. At least to the average on-looker…

"A Portkey, Severus?" McGonagall demanded, her voice quiet but firm. "You gave a twelve year old child a _Portkey_? To use _alone_?"

Snape glowered down at him, his eyes slit strangely.

Harry's lungs burned. He wasn't in trouble with Snape as well, was he?

"The headmaster was aware." Snape's face was blank again as he addressed McGonagall in a rather bored tone. "Potter knows when he is allowed to use it." A fleeting glimpse in Harry's direction.

"Albus, you can't _possibly_ have overlooked the risk involved in giving Harry Potter a Portkey for the summer! Certainly not at a time when—"

"Oh, spare me the theatrics, Minerva."

They all turned, gaping at Professor Snape, who was scowling at McGonagall.

"I _beg_ your pardon," the woman nearly stammered. "You, of all people—"

"You act as though Potter is unable to tie his own shoes." Candid disgust was written all over Snape's face. "_I_, of all people, am aware that a Portkey can only instigate _risk_ when one has been tampered with." Snape looked at Harry with hard eyes. "Mr. Potter has been given strict instructions to never remove this Portkey from around his neck, and he _has not_, has he?"

Realizing they were all staring at _him_ now, Harry shook his head quickly. "No, sir."

"Very well, then." Snape straightened his robes with a stiff tug, dismissing the subject. "Potter, you will come with me."

"He most _certainly_ will not!"

Snape closed his eyes, exhaling wearily.

"I may be aware of this new arrangement with Mr. Potter, Severus, but I am _still _his Head of House."

"How fortunate for you…"

Harry, whose attention had been zipping back and forth between the two conversationalists, caught Snape's eyes for the briefest of seconds; his professor was smirking with muted triumph. Harry, however, was not amused. He leaned his back against the wall, his face feeling as if it were pulled down with weights; he was sick of this.

Snape's gaze glinted peculiarly, his own expression falling flat; he gave Dumbledore a sideways glance.

The headmaster cleared his throat. "Minerva?"

"Yes?"

"A word, if you please?" Dumbledore extended a gentle hand in her direction.

McGonagall inspected Harry for a long moment before responding, "Of course, Albus." She continued to peek over her shoulder as Dumbledore slowly lead them down the corridor. They rounded a corner.

Alone with Snape, Harry's stomach still ached, though he was grateful for the privacy. He studied the floor.

"I presume you've been practicing the shrinking spell to the extreme?"

Harry yanked at the pockets of his uncomfortably snug trousers but said nothing. Without warning, Snape moved forward and lifted him from the armpits. Sucking in a startled breath of air, Harry grabbed handfuls of Snape's robes until he was settled onto the closest windowsill.

"Is silence ever an option with me, Mr. Potter?" Snape inquired in his deep voice.

Harry shrugged. "It should be."

Snape made a low noise in the back of his throat. "Look at me."

The movement took effort, like a forced smile, but Harry obeyed, fixing his eyes on the crooked bone in Snape's nose.

"I assume you did not come here simply for homework help," Snape began," on pain of death…"

Lifting a single shoulder, Harry remained silent. Not even Snape's weak attempt at humor could cheer him up.

Snape leaned in, the creases around his eyes deep. "What happened?

Harry scraped his heel along the wall. "Nothing _happened_—"

"I can't even _pay_ you to keep this quiet, Potter," Snape remarked; he tilted Harry's chin up with his knuckle and moved his head side-to-side a bit, as if checking him over. "Try again."

Harry's throat suddenly felt very tight. He tried to swallow. "It seems really stupid, now."

"Nothing could be stupider than what I just witnessed…"

His eyes found the lumpy nose in front of him again. Was Snape talking about McGonagall…or Harry? He felt the backs of Snape's fingers touch his forehead.

"Was it your uncle?"

"I'm not ill…"

"Quiet, Potter. Your uncle." Snape cupped his palm around the base of Harry's neck, frowning in thought.

"Not really…"

"His son, then."

"Dudley?"

Snape raised his brows once, in careless acknowledgement.

"No," Harry muttered, wriggling a bit under Snape's hand. "He always acts like a git—why are you squeezing my neck like that?"

"Speak plainly, Potter," Snape grumbled; he dropped his hand, "I am tiring of the guessing game."

"Aunt Marge is staying over…" Just saying the name made Harry's gut spike with anger.

"And?"

Harry stared at him. "And what?"

"Potter!"

"She's a right cow," Harry spat out, his face hot again. He'd never hated anyone as much as this woman. "She…"

"She _what_?"

God, this was so embarrassing. "She made me stand in a corner."

"Oh, for Merlin's _sake_, Potter…"

"She wanted to thrash me!" Harry's pulse pounded in his cheeks.

Snape paused, his eyes darkening. "She thrashed you?"

"No," Harry mumbled, looking down at his lap, "but she would have. She went upstairs to find a belt and that's when I left—" He fumbled over the words.

"And did your uncle give permission for this?" Snape's lips were thin; his voice held an edge that made Harry's stomach tingle nervously.

"Dunno." Harry shrugged a third time. "I doubt it." The thought had never occurred to him, really.

"A corner, you say."

"Yes, I already told you, and it's really embarrassing, all right?"

"As it should be." Snape narrowed his gaze. "And _mind_ your tongue."

Harry glared at his own kneecaps; Snape wasn't saying the right things at all.

Quiet dominated the cool atmosphere of the corridor for another instant.

Suddenly, Snape let out all of his breath at once, as if he'd been holding it. Harry lifted his eyes to see Snape rubbing his third finger and thumb along his temples.

"What could you have _possibly_ done to cause your aunt to threaten such a thing…"

Harry's insides coiled; he stared up at Snape in disbelief. _What could I have done_?

Smoothing his hand over his nose and cheeks, Snape scowled, squinting as he leaned forward. "Your glasses are scratched…"

Harry jerked away from Snape's outstretched hand.

Snape lowered his arm slowly, his brows knitted into a crumpled 'V'.

The click of heels against stone echoed from down the corridor; Snape averted his attention to the aggravating staccato. McGonagall.

Harry _clunked_ the back of his head against the cool window pane, ignoring the both of them.

"Severus Snape," McGonagall summoned in her no-nonsense tone as she continued briskly forward. "I need a word."

"Don't you always…" Snape muttered disdainfully, curling his lips. He turned back to the window.

Harry inspected the curly edge of the window frame to his left; he forced an apathetic expression, idly pounding a scuffed sole against the wall.

"Potter."

No answer. Harry could feel Snape tensing, but for once, he couldn't care less.

All of a sudden, Snape clipped Harry's chin between his forefinger and thumb, pulling his face around. "Don't move," the man instructed. "Do you hear me?"

Harry would have yanked his chin away, but he didn't have the energy.

"Potter…" Snape's brows stretched toward his hairline.

"I hear you."

Snape released him, frowning as he stared but saying nothing.

"Severus?"

A stiff pause. Harry looked away from him, his stomach tightening again. Snape gave a muted sigh before walking a few paces down the corridor. "What is it, Minerva," Harry heard him mutter. McGonagall glanced at Harry, took Snape's elbow and moved him away a few steps.

Harry slumped against the window again, gritting his teeth against his hurt feelings. He didn't know why his stomach felt so awful; he had no idea why he felt so much like crying, when it had been months since he'd last done that. Wasn't coming to Hogwarts supposed to make him feel _better_?

Harry cracked his knuckles loudly.

And just what were they saying about him_?_

"…a fine one to speak about _keeping_ things, Minerva," Snape's growl finally resounded in Harry's ears. McGonagall whispered something back.

Ceasing his knuckle-popping, Harry listened.

"…knew all about Lupin coming here, did you not?" Snape spat. "Your favorite _student_?"

Blood pounded in Harry's ears.

They weren't speaking of _him_ at all.

Somehow, for reasons Harry couldn't explain if he wanted to, that made this whole thing even worse.

Scratching mindlessly at his fringe for only a second, Harry slipped off of the windowsill without making a sound, even though his limbs felt like they weighed a ton. Silently, Harry began to walk in the opposite direction.

"…no choice in the matter, Severus…is…is that Potter?"

Harry kept moving.

"Mr. Potter!" Snape's voice bounced off the corridor.

But still, Harry paid him no mind, walking in time to his heart beat…the pulsing in his head and throat…his cheeks.

"Get _back_ here, Potter!"

Snape picked up speed from behind.

Harry began jogging. _The accidental magic in Surrey…getting soaked with dish water…Aunt Marge and the belt…Snape's disapproval… It was all too much. _

There was only one place he could even stomach being right now.

"Stop _this instant!_" Snape's shouts were broken and jagged; he was running as well. "Where the _hell_ do you think you're going, Potter!"

Harry's lungs were bursting. He was in trouble, but he didn't care. Punishment was the farthest thing from his mind.

Harry was sprinting now. He knew where he was going.

He rounded a corner and headed straight for the Fat Lady.

Her eyes grew wide with horror as Harry barreled forward, with Snape following half-a-corridor away.

"Tarnished marbles!" Harry hollered, trying out the most recent password.

The portrait swung open without hesitation.

"_Enough_ of this foolishness!" Snape called out, closer now. "Not another step!"

Climbing through, Harry ran up to the cold fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder and tossed it into the hearth. He stepped into the emerald flames.

Harry's heart was thrumming out of control.

An instant later, Snape climbed the portrait hole, panting, strands of hair sticking to his forehead.

"Hagrid's Hut!"

Snape paled; for a split second, Harry saw his mouth moving but couldn't make out the words as the Floo swept him away and spat him out onto a dusty, cold floor.

Harry lay on his back until the dizziness went away. Through the dirt on his glasses, he made out several strands of silky cobwebs clinging to a vaulted ceiling. Harry instantly began to sweat.

His second mistake of the day.

This was definitely _not_ Hagrid's.

TBC…

* * *

**Author's Note:** Okay, so it was a sort-of weekly update... Sorry to keep you waiting those few extra days. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I've already got part of the next chapter written, so forgive me for the cliff-hanger ;-)

Thanks to everyone who left a review or just added this story to your alerts or favorites. I appreciate all the support, every time. :-) (I tried to get a response out to all reviewers; if I missed you, I'm sorry...I was working like a beast on this chapter...) And thank you, Tabitha, brilliant beta (and friend), for your help and encouragement.

As for Snape in this chapter....I beg of you: be patient with him. ;-)


	4. Forgotten

**A/N: Assuming you have read the original story in this series, you should be aware of how Snape deals with misbehavior. And (not that I need to tell you this) but he's not coming out with a book on parenting any time soon, so please don't take a leaf from it ;-) On with the chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Forgotten**

Harry sat up slowly and looked around. It didn't take him long to realize that he had no idea where he was.

The empty room was very small, with a rust-stained basin in one corner and an old wooden table and chair in the other. A pile of dirty glass tumblers was being washed by magic in the sink before floating over to the table, leaving a dripping trail of brown water along the dirt-encrusted floor. Harry stared at the drying cups; they looked filthier than before they had been washed.

The walls were bare, except for a hook that held a greasy waist apron and cobwebs that stretched from the corners of the ceiling.

A deep, phlegmy cough came from the next room. Harry's head throbbed with panic. He'd gotten mixed up in the Floo network before, but he had been lucky that time—he'd landed rather close to his destination, even though he _had_ landed in Knockturn Alley. But this was different; the only place near Hagrid's was the school, and Harry was more than certain that the common room Floo hadn't redistributed him _there. _For all Harry knew, he could be sitting in the middle of a stranger's kitchen.

Pushing himself up with shaky knees, Harry immediately whipped around, searching for a pot of Floo powder.

Nothing. Not even a mantel to set it on. The fireplace was barely more than a square-shaped hole in the wall.

Hot panic swelled in Harry's chest now. He clutched his wand which he'd thrust into his waistband before McGonagall dragged him down the corridor. Reaching into the collar of his shirt, he felt around for his Portkey.

* * *

Severus slapped his palms against the thick mantel of the Gryffindor common room fireplace as the last wisp of green flame dissolved like mist.

"Dammit, Potter!" He pounded the stone once more before turning, a hand clamped over his eyes. "_Dammit_." Whispered this time.

The pattering of quick footsteps grew nearer.

Severus clutched at a clump of hair that had fallen over his nose; he jammed his knuckles against his eyes sockets. And then, clearing the strands from his face, he pulled himself together.

"_Severus_…" Minerva called out, breathless, as she stepped into the common room. She froze when she glimpsed the professor standing in the middle of the rug. Alone. "Severus, what on _Earth_?"

Severus pinned her with a withering glare.

Minerva lowered her spectacles to the tip of her nose, her eyes darting around the room. "Where is he?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Minerva…" He moved toward the Floo again, throwing his robes away from his feet, his lips white and thin.

The woman ogled him. "What did you _say_ to him? What did you _do_—"

"_I_," Severus barked, "did not say a _word_ to him!" He grabbed the clay container of Floo powder from the edge of the mantel, lifted the lid to peer inside, and smashed it back in place. Severus glowered at her. "I did _nothing_."

"Calm your temper, Severus," Minerva said quietly, unperturbed by the outburst.

Severus slammed the pot back onto the mantel; turning from her, he rested the heel of his hand against the edge; his shoulders rose and fell with his breathing.

"If I know Mr. Potter," Minerva continued, taking her time as she readjusted her bifocals, "he'll come down from his dormitory when he's ready. However, a bit of coaxing would do no harm—"

"He's not there."

Minerva's arm floated down to her side. "What are you talking about, Severus? Where else would he go?"

Flipping around, Severus glowered at the woman as though she were a first year Potions student. Ignoring her question, he reached for the pot of Floo powder again, leaving the lid on the edge of the mantel. He tossed a handful of tiny grains into the hearth; the emerald flames exploded in front of him, but Severus didn't flinch; he didn't even blink.

"Severus!" Minerva swept forward. "Severus, where could you _possibly_ be going! _Where_ has Harry gone—"

"If I _knew_, Minerva," Severus hissed suddenly, spinning around to face her, "I would _tell you_!" His teeth were bared, but his eyes glittered with something other than rage.

Minerva took a small step backward; she blinked, pressing her lips together.

Severus stepped into the roaring Floo without another word.

Minerva stood quietly, watching without seeing. But as Severus enunciated his destination, the woman gasped, springing to attention. "Severus! Hagrid's not connected—" She reached forward as if to stop him, her shout muffled by the great _whoosh_ that permeated the room.

* * *

He had taken it for granted—it was invisible, after all. He had worn it for months without giving it a second thought, even though it was too heavy on his chest in the summer, even though it was a bit manky.

And now it was gone.

Tucked away in McGonagall's pocket.

Harry stood stiffly in the middle of the grotesque kitchen, listening to the occasional gruff murmur of voices beyond the moldy green curtain. He figured he must be in some sort of restaurant—maybe even a pub—but he hoped against hope that it wasn't located in Knockturn Alley. Even Hagrid had nearly scolded him for ending up there last summer—Harry could only imagine Snape's reaction…

His limbs felt weighted down, drenched with nauseating fear that threatened to consume him. Not a pinch of Floo powder in sight. No Portkey. Harry didn't know any useful spells; his wand might as well have been a dead tree branch.

Through the curtain was his only escape from this place—wherever he _was_.

Harry pushed back his sweaty, cinder-streaked fringe, and desperately scanned the room for a cupboard…a shelf on the wall—anything that would hold a container of Floo powder. Apparently, no one had heard him slide out of the fireplace, so perhaps they wouldn't pay any mind to his leaving either.

But there was nothing; not even a place to hide. For the first time in a long while, Harry felt totally alone.

Blinking back hot tears of frustration and serious regret, Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead and tried to peek through a thin slit in the curtain.

All of a sudden, the fireplace heaved warm air behind him, ruffling his hair. Harry's shoulders jerked in surprise as he twisted around. He watched a black head of hair duck out of the stone hearth, followed by thick ebony robes…

A tidal wave of relief washed over Harry.

Snape straightened up, his eyes immediately darting around the room. He stopped, dropping his hands to his sides when he caught sight of a splotchy-cheeked Harry planted in the middle of the dirt floor.

Snape stared at him for a short while before expelling the air in his lungs, as though he'd be holding it in.

Harry gawked at Snape's peculiar expression, his mouth half-open; his tongue felt numb; he didn't know what to say. But then again, it didn't matter if Harry would have commenced a five-minute monologue, for hardly a second later, Snape's eyes thinned into glinting gashes, his nostrils flaring.

Instantly, Harry's warm blanket of relief was ripped away. He _knew_ that look…

Finding his tongue, Harry sucked in air to explain, but Snape had already crossed the room. A blur of black wool swept across Harry's vision before he found his upper body wedged into the crook of Snape's elbow, his chin centimeters from a rotted chair top.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tucked his head into his shoulders as Snape drew his arm back and dealt Harry an open-handed thwack across the rear end that would have sent him flying if he weren't being held so tightly.

Harry gripped handfuls of the sleeve across his ribs, groaning a quiet _Ow_ as the familiar sharp sting sailed in and conquered.

Instinctively, Harry struggled against the awkward half nelson, his face already flaming, but Snape only hiked him up a bit, doling out three more equally enthusiastic cracks to the seat of Harry's trousers before hauling him up by the arm.

"Do you have _any_ idea what you just put me through?" Snape growled, giving the thin shoulders a good shake; his face was so close that Harry could smell the man's aftershave. "You are _never_ to use the Floo without permission again, young man! Do you _hear_ me?"

Harry's lids fluttered between flinches at the stern scolding. His throat felt swollen now; his heart was ready to thud out of his chest, and somewhere, beneath his surging adrenalin, his bum just plain ached.

Still, Harry could find nothing to say. He glanced away, blinking the wetness out of his eyes.

"_Harry_." Snape's voice was quiet but terse.

Biting his lips together, Harry nodded; he was so ashamed. "I hear you," he croaked in a whisper.

The sound of rings sliding along a rusty bar had both of them glancing toward the curtain.

A tall, elderly man stood with one hand clenching the bunched-up drapery and the other against the door frame, fixing them with a fierce, grumpy stare behind his wiry spectacles. "Caught the little thief have you, Severus?"

Snape turned his attention back to Harry, whose eyes had been traveling between the two angry faces. "Mr. Potter has made a grievous error, Aberforth."

Harry averted his eyes from the painful glare.

"I have come to collect him," Snape informed, his tone crinkling Harry's ears. "We were just leaving."

"S'pose you'll need the Floo powder, then…" Aberforth grumbled sourly under his breath as he released the curtain and plodded around the corner into the next room.

"Look at me right now."

Harry's whole face felt stiff, but he looked anyway. And immediately regretted it…

Snape's eyes were terrible as he bent down. He took Harry's chin in his fingers, lifting it even higher. "You _know_ better," he said sternly.

Harry breathed loudly through his nose, trying to keep it together. If only one of the dripping tumblers would fly into his forehead and put him out of his misery…

"Go stand by the Floo," he instructed through tight lips. "Now."

"I'm sorry…" Harry mumbled, startled by the dryness of his own voice.

Without a word, Snape gripped Harry's arm and guided him forward, placing his back against the cracked wall next to the fireplace. Snape's face was even closer this time. "If you so much as move a _toe_ from this spot, I will tan your hide where we stand."

Harry absently scraped at the filmy filth on the floor with the heel of his trainer, but as usual, his scalp prickled at the threat, sending a horrible tingle down his spine. His ears burned hot.

"_Eyes up_."

Harry obeyed, snapping his gaze up to catch an eyeful of Snape's deeply creased forehead.

"Is that clear?"

"Yes, it's clear."

"Do _not_ move."

"I won't…"

Swallowing against his sore throat, Harry looked away as Snape turned and strode toward the curtain; he knew very well that Snape didn't believe him.

* * *

Harry rubbed his forehead as he stood uncertainly in the middle of the hearthrug in Snape's sitting room. His stomach felt like he had eaten needles and razor blades for dinner—beyond horrible.

Seconds later, Snape stepped through the green flames; his eyes were still tilted with fury, but his cheeks looked drawn and sallow, almost haggard.

"Go sit on the sofa," he instructed tightly; Snape turned away without waiting for confirmation of obedience. "_Move_, Potter."

Very aware of his heart throbbing in his throat, Harry ducked his head a bit, watching warily as Snape strolled over to his adjacent office, threw open the door and stalked inside.

A sharp swish of fabric sounded from behind the wall; Harry flinched. Snape must have torn off his outer robes and thrown them against something.

Harry stepped quietly toward the black leather sofa and sat down on the arm, as though in a daze. He could hear the sound of papers shuffling and drawer items clanking. Snape sighed heavily. And then there was silence.

Picking at an embroidered dimple in the sofa's arm, Harry pressed his teeth together and tried to ignore his hot face…tried to forget the buzzing ache in his behind. Tried to clear his mind of the humiliation that fogged his senses and made his head hurt.

Harry already knew that Snape was determined; not a single word would sway him from whatever he was about to say…or do. And really, by this point, Harry didn't care. Emotions swirled through his entire body like overlapping hurricanes, and he couldn't get a hold on any of them.

It had been so long since Harry had done something like this—even longer since Snape had spoken to him through gritted teeth, in the way that made Harry want to crawl in a hole and never come out.

He could stand the Dursleys being angry with him…hating him even. He could stomach Marge berating him into a corner, threatening to beat him within an inch of his life.

But this was different. Harry couldn't take another second of it.

More shuffling from Snape's office.

Swallowing hard, Harry slid down the arm of the chair onto the sofa cushion and waited. He wracked his brain for an explanation, but nothing made much sense. He'd run away because it was the only thing that seemed logical at the time.

Finally, Harry caught sight of Snape in his peripheral vision. Plucking away at a loose thread on his trousers seemed to be the safest course of action.

"You had better start explaining your bout of idiocy, and fast...."

Harry held his breath; he could feel the heat from Snape's glare. He apparently wasn't fast enough…

"You _answer_ _me_."

The knives and razor blades twisted and clinked together in Harry's stomach; he slumped further down; the air in the room was smothering.

_I don't know why_, Harry thought dejectedly. _I don't know. I don't know. I don't know_.

His sinuses began to tickle; he set his jaw and studied the faded dirty shoeprints along the fireplace carpet.

"_Look_ at me, Potter. That's the least you can do."

Harry's sticky palms clenched at his trousers; he breathed carefully. Shaking his head with the tiniest of movements, Harry blinked to clear his vision—the dust from the hearth must have been hanging in the air.

"If you think," Snape said dangerously, "that you are able to act as foolishly as you just did this afternoon and escape punishment, you are sadly mistaken, Mr. Potter."

"I didn't say that…"

"Then _what_ is this?"

A stifling pause. Harry swallowed to relieve the choking sensation in his throat, but it hardly helped. Propping his elbow on the arm of the sofa, harry pressed two knuckles against his forehead. _I don't know. _

"You refuse to tell me?"

Harry rubbed his knuckles over a dull stinging above his eyebrow. He mind suddenly flashed to an image of himself sitting on a cold window ledge in the seventh floor corridor. With Snape and McGonagall…

The knives dug at him stomach again, but this time, Harry ached all over. _You said I deserved it._

An oil-soaked wick popped and crackled as its flame licked at the sides of the small glass lantern mounted to the wall.

"Enough of this," Snape hissed from above. "Stand."

Harry's eyes jerked in the man's direction; the fierce glimmer in Snape's black stare had faded, but he looked just as Harry expected him to look—stony. Unwavering. Snape reached into his shirt sleeve, withdrawing a smooth, wooden ruler. "_Obey me_."

"This isn't fair." Harry's voice cracked on every word. And then, without warning, everything rushed to the surface with sickening speed. Leaning over, Harry jammed his fists against his eyes.

A brief silence from above.

"Unfair, is it, Mr. Potter?"

A sound like rushing wind pounded against Harry's eardrums, muffling Snape's voice.

The floor creaked with advancing footsteps; Harry flattened his palms against his face and curled into himself. Snape had crouched down in front of him.

"Allow me to inform you on what is _unfair_, young man…" Snape's voice was calm, but sterner than ever. He gave a firm tug to Harry's wrists, but the hands wouldn't budge.

"I gave you a simple order and trusted it to be obeyed," Snape spoke in Harry's ear. "But instead, I had to chase you down the corridor and watch you Floo off to a destination that _does not exist_. That, Mr. Potter, is _anything_ but fair!"

Harry hunched his shoulder against the goosebumps that sprang underneath his earlobe.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ do anything like that to me again!"

Harry felt his face scrunch up behind his hands; he was done.

Choking on a strangled sob, that sounded more like a cough, he yanked his crooked glasses away from his fringe and tossed them onto the carpet before folding his head into his arms.

Warm tears dripped onto Harry's bare arms and trickled down into the creases of his elbows.

They stayed that way, frozen like gargoyles, for the longest moment while Harry cried out his anguish in deep coughs, dotting the knees of his trousers with salt water.

At some point, he thought he heard Snape mutter his name, but Harry ignored it. He felt warm skin on the back of his neck and promptly nudged it away with his shoulder blade. "She said awful things to me," Harry mumbled into his arms, "and you don't even care!"

A pause.

An audible swallow.

"Who said awful things, Potter?"

But Harry only shook his head against the wet hollows of his elbows. "I'm not going back there." His face crumpled again and the tears began leaking. "I don't care…I _won't_."

Snape remained silent. It was only when Harry's sobs dwindled down to hitched breaths and involuntary gut clenches that he realized Snape's hand was on his head; the long fingers were caught in Harry's tangles but they didn't hurt. When he noticed Snape's arm was resting against his back, the tears began climbing up his throat again.

They felt different this time.

Still.

Harry used his forearms to mop up the slickness on his cheeks and nose, and then he hid his eyes in his fists again.

"I had a bad day today."

Harry paused mid-sniffle.

The colors bursting behind his lids made him feel weary, but Harry hadn't missed a word of that. It was the first candid thing Snape had ever said to him.

Screwing the backs of his wrists over his swollen eyes, Harry peeked over at his professor. His vision was awfully blurry without his glasses, but he could still make out the lines around Snape's mouth—more than he'd ever noticed them before.

"You did?" Harry's nose was so stuffy he hardly got the words out.

Snape was gazing at the bookshelf. The ruler lay quietly by his feet, forgotten. After a while, he nodded slowly.

Harry rubbed at his itchy eyes. "So did I," he said quietly.

TBC…

* * *

**End Note: Thanks to everyone who has taken interest and is still reading! Your reviews have been so encouraging! And thanks, Tabitha, for the endless help and support. You guys are all wonderful!**


	5. Old and New

**Chapter 5: Old and New**

Harry dug his shoulder blades further into the corner of the sofa, resting his heels against the carpet. He was slouching, but so far, Snape hadn't said a word about it. In fact, Snape hadn't said—or done—much of anything for the past five minutes, except to conjure Harry an old handkerchief to keep him from using his knuckles to wipe his runny nose.

Snape was still in his office, but this time, Harry had nothing to fear from the creaking drawer. He'd opted to pick at the thread of his folded handkerchief while Snape walked into his office and quietly returned the ruler to its dark place inside of the desk.

The moment seemed private somehow; Harry pretended not to notice.

The embarrassment that had gripped his stomach had faded, leaving his limbs as hollow as brown paper towel tubes. Harry wasn't sure how he felt. All he knew was that if he moved even a centimeter, his head might explode.

The solid _click_ of a door closing sounded in the distance, but Harry kept his eyes trained on his handkerchief and balanced his chin on his chest as still as possible to keep the pain from swelling. His throat felt raw from all the howling and the back of his neck throbbed in time with the heartbeat behind his eyeballs. This part was even worse than the blubbering itself…

"Sit up."

Carefully, Harry glanced over his shoulder. Snape was standing over him, his expression neutral but collected. Perhaps he _had_ noticed the slouching…

Snape nodded once to reiterate his request.

Pushing his heels against the rug, Harry obeyed, his skull pulsing with every movement.

"Put your head down."

Too tired to even question it, Harry did as he was told, closing his eyes against the nagging ache. He waited for something cold and wet to drape across his clammy neck but was surprised when his skin broke out in a wave of goosebumps from the gust of heat that suddenly soaked through the back of his neck, warming him down to his fingertips.

The thick haze of throbbing pain immediately diminished to a tiny heartbeat at the top of Harry's head. He blinked lethargically, his face slack with relief.

"That's loads better," Harry mumbled to his own chest; he closed his eyes again. "How'd you know?"

Snape ignored the question. "Stay here; I'll be back in a moment—keep your head down."

Harry nodded weakly. All thoughts had drained from his mind, right along with his screaming headache.

Soon, Harry felt several fingers lifting his chin off of his chest. Slowly opening his eyes, Harry squinted at a small vial of a familiar dark blue liquid; he groaned.

"Oh, _no_…"

"Oh, yes, Potter," Snape insisted, uncorking the tiny glass vial and holding the pencil-width rim to Harry's lips. "Tip back."

The scent of unwashed gym socks invaded Harry's senses; he made a face.

"Quickly."

Harry obeyed, breathing only out of his mouth until every last drop had gone down his throat. Even then, he could still taste it. "Ugh…" Harry wrinkled his nose, moving his mouth away from the empty vial.

"Lean back."

"The heating charm worked fine…"

"Enough."

Harry let his head fall into the leather cushions as a tidal wave of exhaustion swept in and replaced the tingling in his head. He blinked lazily; after a moment, his head began sliding toward the arm of the sofa, heavy as a cannon ball.

"…Potter…" Harry heard Snape mutter through a sigh. "You've neglected sleep."

Harry felt his eyes start to roll back in his head. He hadn't neglected it…not really. He'd eventually gone to sleep sometime during the nights at the Dursleys. But Harry didn't have the strength to argue. A warm cloud had wrapped around him and relaxed all of his muscles.

The sound of shoestrings untying mingled with dull thuds on carpet. Harry felt a tug at his feet; his whole body slipped down a bit until his cheek was resting on a flat cushion. And that was all he remembered after that.

* * *

It was dark when Harry opened his eyes. He was comfortable, lying on his back beneath soft blankets that covered him up to his chin, except for his arms that rested on his pillow, on either side of his head. He rubbed his sleep-stiff lids with both fists; his glasses were gone.

And then Harry remembered.

His cheeks prickled hot; he was suddenly very awake.

Were they still on the rug?

Harry perched himself on his elbows, scrunching up his eyes as he searched the floor for a pair of bent up, slightly scratched spectacles. But the rug was gone. Harry squinted hard at the slate-colored blur beneath his bed.

Bed?

Sitting up all the way now, Harry twisted around and spotted his glasses folded on a nearby table. He reached for them, studying them in the palm of his hand. Yes, they were definitely his—but the lenses were clean, void of any scratches, and the frames that hooked over his ears were straight as pins. He quickly shoved them onto his nose, blinking as his vision adjusted to the dimness of the room.

Harry leaned back on his palms as he looked around. He was in a dormitory—a dark one with weakly-lit, hanging lanterns providing the only illumination, flickering yellowish-green against the stone walls. A peculiar tint. The room held five four-poster beds, including Harry's. The head and foot boards were shaped like sleighs and made of a very dark, almost black wood. The hanging drapery around each bed was thick as a winter cloak...forest green…

Harry's stomach jolted and shot up into his throat.

_Green_.

He kicked the comforter away from his legs as hard as he could, grimacing in disgust at the wrinkled silver sheets underneath his feet.

And then he sat very still, frowning in confusion. He hadn't remembered climbing into bed. And he certainly wouldn't have set _foot_ in the Slytherin dormitory. Who knew what foul things he'd run into in here…

Sliding off the edge of the bed, Harry stretched his back a bit before running a hand through his crow's nest of hair.

A door in the wall stood wide open, a soft light glowing through the narrow corridor, leading to a room Harry couldn't see. He patted his hip, feeling for his wand, until he spied it lying near the edge of the night table where he had retrieved his glasses. Stuffing the stick of holly into the waistband of his trousers, Harry moved quietly toward the tunnel.

-----

With the small bits of wood burning red in the fireplace, the Slytherin common room was brighter than the dormitory, but nevertheless, Harry had to turn all the way around, peering carefully into gloomy blue-black corners in order to see the scope of the entire area.

Nearly all the candles on the walls were lit, their flames shimmering through green stained glass lanterns, like emeralds. The chairs surrounding the hearth were high-backed and constructed of the same wood as the bed frames, opulent and shining, adding to the stiff-collared atmosphere that so starkly contrasted the warm, crimson comfort of the Gryffindor common room.

Harry glanced down at his wrinkled trousers and thinning, grayish socks, which were now hanging an inch off of each set of toes, and felt rather shabby. He quickly dismissed the peculiar sensation when he glimpsed a shadowed mass sitting underneath one of the larger study tables.

His school trunk.

Crossing the room, his ribcage inflating with pleasure, Harry knelt down and ran his fingers over the row of metal studs edging the lid. Opening the latch, he sat back on his heels, smiling absently as he gazed at his books and clothing—it was like spotting an old mate in a room full of strange faces. Everything had been neatly folded and stacked.

But how had it gotten here?

Harry chewed on his bottom lip while he pondered the possibilities. An instant later, however, the sound of low, rumbling voices floated in from another corridor, this one leading away from the common room. Harry recognized Snape's voice right away.

But there was someone else…

Glancing over his belongings one last time, Harry silently closed the lid of his trunk and walked toward the exit.

The bookshelves in Snape's study slowly came into view as Harry rounded a corner at the end of the corridor. The doors must have been left open deliberately…

"…I do believe that everything will fall into place quite nicely—better than we had hoped."

At the sound of Dumbledore's voice, Harry pressed his shoulder against the corridor wall and listened.

"Indeed, Headmaster, I believe the houses of Gryffindor and Slytherin will be the first to sign the peace treaty…aside from the entire staff merging into familial bliss…"

Harry rolled his eyes. Snape could be a real git sometimes.

The third man in the room cleared his throat softly. "I doubt things will ever be _that_ ideal, Severus." The smile in the man's voice was evident—calming and kind. Harry grinned faintly to himself as he picked at the wall with his thumbnail and kept his ears open.

"Shall we ready you a cave in September, Lupin, or is the floor in your quarters sufficient for curling up—"

"Severus."

Harry stilled his thumb at the cautioning tone in Dumbledore's voice.

They all remained quiet for several long seconds. Harry's palms tickled as he glanced down; he slowly tucked his foot close to his body, moving the loose toe of his sock out of all possible lines of vision.

And then…

"Come, Potter."

Closing his eyes, Harry let the side of his head bang lightly against the stone wall before pushing himself off with his shoulder.

He should have known. Without his invisibility cloak, Harry might as well have been tap dancing in plain sight. Snape could hear a quill hit the floor in the middle of a crowded classroom.

Harry dragged his feet into Snape's study, squinting a bit when his tired eyes met brightness.

Snape, Dumbledore, and a skinny man with sand-colored hair were all standing in a half-circle near the fireplace. Snape had his robes on again, fastened up to his neck, and was standing with his hands crossed over his chest, his face drawn and still, while Dumbledore stood placidly next to him with his chin tipped up. The other man was clenching and unclenching his hands, as if he didn't know what to do with them, until one of them found its way up to his elbow and clamped on, letting the other one dangle. His robes were a faded navy color and frayed at the hems, but the man didn't seem embarrassed.

They were all looking at Harry, but the man with the manky robes on was staring—studying Harry's eyes as if he were trying to tell him something without speaking.

Harry curled his toes inside of his socks and awkwardly scratched at an itchy spot on his neck.

"Good evening, Harry," Dumbledore said gently.

Harry gave the headmaster a small smile of acknowledgement. His glasses flashed as he eyed the other man, who was still staring at him; Snape was standing rather stiffly now.

Dumbledore's eyes crinkled at the corners. "This is Professor Remus Lupin, Harry." He nodded toward the professor. "He will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this coming year."

Professor Lupin shifted slightly, tightening his grip around his elbow. He smiled and dipped his chin once, clearing his throat for the second time.

"Hello, Harry." He greeted Harry in the same kind, clear voice.

"Hello," Harry replied, flicking his gaze carefully toward Snape. He suddenly got the urge to trudge all the way back to the Slytherin dormitory and stay there.

But in almost the next instant, Snape seemed to regain a part of himself; he blinked slowly, his mouth relaxing as his eyes came into focus with Harry's. He cocked a subtle brow as he got an eyeful of rumpled Muggle clothing.

Tugging at the hem of his loose shirt, Harry found himself sidling over to Snape's side of the room.

Professor Lupin's light brown eyes followed him the entire way until his face was obscured by Snape's robes as Harry seated himself on the edge of the sofa arm. He kept very still among the small band of silence.

"It's late, Headmaster."

Harry looked over his shoulder to try and see the wall clock that was ticking behind them, but before he could make sense of the short and long whiskers, a pair of hands clamped on his shoulders and slid him firmly down onto the cushion.

Pulling a face that Snape couldn't see, Harry leaned back and arranged his feet underneath his thighs in a comfortable pretzel. He studied the cracked leather of Professor Lupin's brown shoes—the only part of him Harry could now see.

"It is, indeed, time for all of us to turn in, Severus," Dumbledore agreed rather jovially, "Mr. Potter, especially."

Harry felt himself blush; he dug his knuckles into his cheek and slinked down even further.

Professor Lupin had taken a small step to the side, away from Snape's obstruction; he invaded Harry's peripheral vision, saying nothing, still, but hovering like a wave of quivering heat.

"You and Remus will be in touch?" Dumbledore directed this at Snape; however, it was anything but an inquiry. Even Harry knew that tone. He craned his eyes up toward Snape, who barely nodded.

The new professor gave Snape a very quick half-smile and then glanced down at his elbow.

"Accompany me to my quarters, Remus," Dumbledore continued, extending a beckoning hand, "I find the Floo to be a bit less jarring." He winked at Harry from behind his spectacles.

Harry's gut twinged. Did Dumbledore know about the Floo?

"Good night, Severus."

"Good morning…" Snape grumbled under his breath.

Harry glanced back at the clock again—12: 45 a.m. How long had he been asleep?

"Good night, Harry…"

Turning around, Harry pushed himself up straight with both palms and gazed up at Professor Lupin; the man raised his hand a bit, as if to wave, and then held onto his elbow again, grinning shyly.

"Good night, Professor."

Snape stalked over to the other side of the room and jerked a book off of the shelf, tossing it open; his hair dangled onto the pages.

Professor Lupin's smile flattened a bit; a peculiar fog passed over his tan eyes, only for a brief second, and then he nodded once at Harry and followed Dumbledore through the exit.

Harry watched as Snape silently slid the volume back into its slot on the shelf.

"The new professor seems nice…"

Snape's face was hidden by his hair and he was still facing the bookcase, but even so, Harry didn't hear a response.

"He sort of looked at me strange," Harry pressed on, hoping such a declaration would prompt Snape to say something. "It was like he wanted to talk to me… Do you think he did?"

Pushing back a curtain of hair, Snape strode slowly over to the fireplace and stirred the bits of wood with a flick of his wand. The hearth coughed out a load of pinkish-red sparks that floated up like dust.

Harry wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Professor?"

Snape shifted his gaze to Harry, as if just noticing him for the first time, his eyes black and gleaming, like flint.

Scooting his bottom into the corner of the sofa, Harry glanced over Snape's blank expression carefully. "Did you hear me before?"

Snape made a small movement with his chin, dismissing the inquiry but waiting for Harry to speak.

Harry pressed his toe into the rug, dragging it along the plush nubs.

Closing his eyes for a long second, Snape tilted his head a bit. "What is it, Potter?"

"Professor Lupin…" Harry began.

"What of him?"

Harry paused, thinking, and then shrugged, scraping his toe against the carpet again. "I like him is all—he smiles a lot."

Stiffly, Snape flicked another spell at the hearth, adding a piece of kindling. "As do those without brains or fortitude…" The fire popped and hissed loudly as it sprang to life. Snape turned back around, shadows dancing on his face—the flames reflected in his dark eyes.

Harry watched his toe create marks in the rug. He would hold off any more questions about Professor Lupin…at least until tomorrow. It was obvious Snape didn't like him.

The sound of a throat clearing caught Harry's attention; he glanced up.

Snape was studying him, as though trying to make sense of him. "You found your way, I see."

Harry looked over his shoulder and then back at Snape. "All the doors were left open…"

"Mmm."

"I found my trunk as well."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Then I take it you can find your way back and into night clothes…"

"But I'm awake now."

Snape narrowed his gaze.

After a night like tonight, Harry quickly took the hint.

Pushing himself up, he made his way into the Slytherin common room, pausing only to pull off his socks, which were beginning to twist around under the soles of his feet and annoy him. He crumpled them up into his hand as he kneeled down in front of his trunk and opened it for the second time.

"I see Miss Granger has rubbed off on you," Snape commented as he materialized in the dimness of the common room. He was peering into Harry's trunk, smirking at the folded clothing and stacked books.

"Not really…" Harry tossed his dirty socks on top of the pile and thrust his hand down into his trunk to search for pajamas. "I never got the chance to pack. These were all folded when I opened it." He jerked out a pair of red plaid pajamas, sending most of the remaining contents spilling out around him.

Rolling his eyes, Snape reassembled the mess with a subtle wand movement.

"Did you collect all this for me?" Harry wondered, rolling his pajama bottoms up and thrusting them under his arm.

"No. Close your trunk and get dressed." Snape swept toward the dormitory in a swirl of robes.

"Who was it then?" Harry called out after him.

Snape continued walking. "The headmaster," he said without turning around. He disappeared into the next room.

Harry stared at the pajamas under his arm. Dumbledore? He'd actually gone to the Dursleys? Harry felt a surge of embarrassment tingle his spine. Did he know about Aunt Marge?

Glancing over his trunk a final time, Harry frowned slightly. Where was his Nimbus 2000?

"Quickly, Potter!"

Harry dropped his bundle, startled from the summons. Pulling his too-snug collar away from his throat, Harry began to undo the chipped buttons.

Less than five minutes later, Harry was climbing under the covers of his new bed. The sheets and pillowcase were cool, just the way he liked them, but it hardly changed the fact…

"Why do I have to sleep here?" Harry wrinkled his nose, even has he stuck his feet underneath the blankets. "What if I'm sleeping in _Malfoy's_ bed?"

"This is the first year dormitory, Potter," Snape said matter-of-factly, ignoring Harry's jab at Draco. He dimmed the wall lamps until the flames were small dots behind glass. "Lie down."

Harry took his time, reaching back and arranging his pillow. "I could always just sleep in my bed from this past year," he suggested.

"You'll do nothing of the sort." Snape's voice penetrated the near-darkness.

"How come?"

The comforter was tugged tight across Harry's belly-button. "Lie. Back."

Jamming his fists into the sides of his pillow, Harry expelled a slow sigh and sank back onto the bed.

Another swift pull at the covers; tightening them around his shoulders now.

"Professor McGonagall is leaving on holiday for a fortnight starting tomorrow," Snape explained. "A vacant tower is the last place you would be allowed to sleep…"

Harry blinked up at him, the outline of black robes barely standing out against the inky dimness, curling his lips around a yawn he hadn't meant to release. "Where's she going?"

"Dublin."

"Oh." Harry traced the outline of his pillow corner, and then another thought struck him. He scrunched his eyes up, peering up into the shadowy atmosphere. "Did Professor Dumbledore get my broom?"

"He did." The sound of metal against metal meant that Snape must have adjusted the drapes. "Do you know where to find the lavatory?"

Harry made a face. "Does he have it in his office?"

"Answer my question, Potter."

"Is the lav in same place as the Gryffindor dormitory's?"

"Out the door to your far left."

"Yeah, that's it. I know where it is…"

Harry listened to the sound of robes brushing against the floor. He supposed his question-asking had come to an end.

The lantern nearest the loo lit up a bit more, illuminating the partially open door. Harry was able to see Snape tuck his wand away in his sleeve as he walked back toward the bed. Snape's face was almost blacked out, but his hair looked like hanging, gnarled roots against the very weak lamplight.

"You may use the lavatory if you need it, but you'll not leave this dormitory until the morning, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go to sleep."

More rustling as Snape's shadowed form glided toward the exit.

"Professor?"

Snape halted at the door and turned slightly. "What is it?"

Harry shifted beneath his blankets; a slow heat was creeping from the top of his head all the way down his legs. "Are you still angry?" he asked quietly, pressing the side of his face further into the pillow.

Snape stood as still as stone for a long moment.

Harry's stomach rolled over with regret as he mentally kicked his own arse. Everything was better, wasn't it? His trunk was here, and his broom was in the building at least. Plus, Harry had forced his brain to bury the memory of getting swatted in public. It was all fine. He should have just left it.

But then Snape blew his breath out, like he always did. "I'm not angry, Harry."

Harry twisted the corner of his pillow, thinking about this, uncertain if he believed Snape or not. "Oh…"

A sudden bright blue light erupted close to Harry's bed; he squinted into the pillow for a second and then peeked around the plush. The wandlight accentuated the wrinkles in Snape's forehead, reflecting white in his narrowed eyes.

Harry glanced away, knowing he should apologize, but nothing would come out.

"We all have control over our actions," Snape said solemnly. "You know this as well as I. And you knew it when you ran from me…"

The flush that had slithered its way through Harry's body renewed with vigor. Keeping his mouth shut seemed like the best course of action, but then again, his mouth and his brain never seemed to communicate like Harry wished they would.

He pulled the pillow away, blinking at Snape through the hazy ringed light. "Then why did you say that?"

Snape lowered his wand, frowning. "Elaborate."

"About deserving a belting from Aunt Marge…you were angry about whatever I did—which was _nothing_, by the way." Harry's pulse quickened with bitter hatred for that woman.

Snape's frowned deepened, but he didn't look all that angry. "I said nothing of the sort."

"Yes, you did."

Snape's nose dipped as he studied Harry's face. "You misunderstood me."

"I didn't."

"Potter…"

Harry held onto his pillow, pressing his teeth into his tongue.

"Much of your ill-discipline has been overlooked by the headmaster, Potter, but nothing should earn you such a consequence. You acted correctly with the Portkey."

Harry soaked in the statement, the strange mixture of hurt and embarrassment draining away but still clinging. "It doesn't matter…"

"Look at me, Potter."

The movement strained him, but Harry obeyed anyway.

Snape was still frowning as he held Harry's eyes like magnets. "It matters."

Harry didn't know what to say to that, but the invisible noose around his neck began to loosen considerably.

"You're here now." Snape's voice was gritty; he gazed at Harry for another moment. "Do you understand?"

All Harry could do was nod against his pillow.

Snape's throat rippled with a swallow; he cleared it softly. "Hand me your glasses; they'll be ruined."

The entire room blurred as Harry passed them over. "Thanks for fixing them."

"Go to sleep now," Snape murmured, ignoring the gratitude. "We can speak in the morning."

Harry burrowed into the still-cool covers, lying on his side, until they inched up over his shoulder. His lids sank closed without coaxing. Harry heard Snape move around the room for a bit, and then the door closed quietly.

When Harry opened his eyes the next morning, the dormitory was still murky with gloom but his eyes had adjusted. Pulling an arm out of the blankets and into the cool air, Harry slapped his palm around on the night table until he felt his glasses.

Shoving them onto his nose, he blinked up in confusion at the deep burgundy hangings that were draped over his sleigh-shaped four-poster. He was certain they had been green last night… Sitting up a bit, Harry glanced around at the rest of the green and black beds. Everything was in order.

He looked down at his toes making two small hills in his own comforter—a red and gold striped comforter.

Harry smiled.

TBC…

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much, Tabitha, for beta'ing :-) And thank you, everyone, for the reviews!! Just saw HBP tonight. Loved it ;-)


	6. Direction

**Chapter 6: Direction**

"He looks well."

Dumbledore dipped his chin, a trace of a smile on his lips. "He does."

Remus twisted his paisley-patterned tea cup around on the saucer. The scraping sounded loud in the white and green kitchen of his small Gloucestershire flat.

"He still resembles James."

"Very much so," Dumbledore agreed. He pressed the back of his spoon against the tiny floating lump of sugar, drowning it. "Though he inherited his mother's kindness, as well as her perceptiveness."

Remus' eyes grew soft; he sipped his black tea.

"Not to mention, his father's knack for trouble…" The headmaster peered over his spectacles, catching the younger man's eye.

Grinning, Remus glanced down, warming his thin hands around his cup. He blinked slowly, recalling something, and then let it slip away. "I always meant to visit…I don't know why I didn't."

"Harry is quite a remarkable boy for twelve years old."

"Almost thirteen, if I'm remembering right…"

"You are, indeed." The corners of Albus' eyes creased deeply. "I'm afraid my mind isn't what it used to be."

Remus took a short drag of his tea before clearing his throat. "Did you fear I would run screaming after last night's meeting?"

Dumbledore chuckled silently. "Not you. You have always been one to follow through."

Remus' brows elevated, as if not quite agreeing.

The clock on the wall rang out eight soft dings, indicating the morning hour. The headmaster glanced around the kitchen, eyeing the small gas stove and speckled countertop surrounding the sink; his blue eyes shone as he took in the modest but clean setting.

"I'm quite comfortable here, Albus—I don't require much," Remus said. He brushed his dishwater fringe to the side. "I can manage quite well until the start of term. Taking the train to Hogwarts will be rather nostalgic." He gave Dumbledore another quick smile. "I'm looking forward to it."

"I often miss the experience myself."

They were quiet for a moment. Dumbledore folded his hands on the table.

"He hasn't tried to come here, Albus…" Remus looked down at his saucer. "I've warded the property, though I doubt it was necessary. He has no business with me."

A brief band of silence.

"Hogwarts will always be your home, Remus," Dumbledore said gently. "You are always welcome."

"Thank you." Remus nodded; his eyes were clouded as he fingered his teacup. "But I feel safe here—I always have."

Dumbledore's face crinkled with a melancholy smile; he nodded as well. "As for the reason I have so rudely interrupted your morning tuck-in..." The headmaster reached into his pocket.

Remus frowned a bit, caught off-guard. "You haven't interrupted, Albus."

A fond wink from behind the half-moon specs as Dumbledore placed a handful of tiny vials in front of him.

"What's all this?"

"Rather a nuisance to purchase a good supply from Diagon Alley when one lives in Gloucestershire, wouldn't you say?

Remus' mouth moved but no words followed.

"And although I adore the array of robe material sold in _Everyday Wizard_," Albus casually continued as he flicked his wand to unshrink the vials, "I find the catalogued potions a trifle…overrated. Ah, here we are."

Gawking at the display of tall glass vials filled to the top with smoky blue potion, Remus swallowed thickly, two spots of pink bloomed high on his cheeks.

"Several months' worth I believe," Dumbledore said as he stood. "Found them on my desk early this morning—you wouldn't mind taking them off of my hands, would you?"

Remus' Adam 's apple bobbed with another swallow. He shook his head. "No, of course not."

"Splendid." One final flick of his wand, and Albus' empty cup and saucer flew across the room and landed carefully in the sink. "I shall call very soon." The headmaster began to turn. "Have a lovely day, Remus."

"Albus?"

Dumbledore pivoted slowly. "Yes?"

Remus was standing now, holding the edge of the table lightly, as if to keep steady. "Tell Severus I appreciate it—very much."

A soft, snowy-bearded grin. "Certainly."

* * *

For the first time in weeks, Harry slept soundly, waking up only once to stumble through the dark into the loo. There wasn't a clock anywhere in the dormitory, but Harry knew it was morning just by the way he felt. The same way he had felt on the first morning of classes last September—light and well-rested. And hungry.

Harry pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he shuffled past the common room into the open, well-lit study. He smelled toast.

"Not another step, Potter."

Pausing at the threshold, Harry wiggled his glasses back onto his nose. Snape was hidden behind a copy of the Daily Prophet, sitting by the fire in one of his dimple-backed leather chairs.

Harry scratched at his lower back. Still a bit groggy, he simply stood there.

Snape rustled his newspaper. "In my House," he began coolly, "students are showered and dressed before they enter their common room…"

Harry glanced down at his wrinkled pajamas.

"And they wear shoes."

"How—"

"You shuffled, Potter…"

Peering down at his toes, Harry dug the big ones into the rug.

"You are bare-footed, are you not?" Snape shook out his limp paper and turned the page.

Harry shrugged, still gazing at his feet. "Yeah, so?"

Slowly, Snape lowered his Daily Prophet, unveiling a pair of eyes as dull-black and unappealing as cold coffee.

"All right," Harry muttered, turning to slog out of Snape's study. "I'll go."

The newspaper ascended with a satisfied twitch. "You'll find what you need in the lavatory wardrobe. Do not loiter."

"I won't." Harry hesitated at the door. "Will there still be toast?"

Snape folded down the top half of his newspaper, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps a piece could be spared…"

Harry studied Snape's eyes until they rolled up into his lids.

"Breakfast will wait on you," Snape said evenly when he opened his eyes again. He nodded curtly toward the common room. "Run along."

Giving Snape a tilted half-smile, Harry hurried toward the showers.

Fifteen minutes later, he reentered the study, fully dressed and smoothing down his wet hair. A few strands in the back would eventually poke back up like blades of uncut grass, but it was worth a try anyway.

The smell of breakfast was the first thing that whizzed through Harry's senses; he forgot about his backwards cowlick.

A stack of buttered toast, along with a small pile of scrambled eggs and two pieces of sausage still in casings, sat patiently on a platter that had been set on top of a round oak table just behind the old-fashioned mahogany desk in the corner; Snape was hunched on the matching swivel stool, its claw-like feet chipped about the edges.

Snape's quill scratched noisily against parchment. "Sit and eat, Potter," he spoke from behind his shade of black hair.

Harry pulled the wooden chair out from under the table and picked up his fork as he sat, immediately tucking into scrambled eggs.

Every bite was hot and delicious—he hadn't had much of an appetite for dinner at the Dursleys' last night.

"Use your napkin…"

Harry swallowed his food and reached for the piece of black cloth folded underneath the rim of his plate, spearing an entire piece of sausage at the same time. He wiped his mouth quickly and then devoured half of the link, stuffing his napkin down into his lap.

Harry continued eating, watching as Snape penned something onto several pages of a thin book before softly tapping each one with his wand.

"What are you working on?"

"Swallow your food," Snape grumbled, his back still facing Harry. "Your manners are despicable."

Rolling his eyes, Harry picked up his tumbler of cold milk and took a gulp, washing down his last bite of toast.

Snape scrawled away, the tip of his eagle feather quivering with the brusque strokes.

"What shall I do with the dishes?" Harry rolled his soiled napkin into a ball and placed it on his empty plate.

Thrusting his wand over his shoulder, Snape flicked it once, clearing the entire mess from the table. He returned to his parchment.

Harry blinked. So Snape was in _that_ mood.

Pushing back his chair, he stood. As if he had any idea where to go…

"Not so fast, Potter."

Harry pulled a face. "I haven't moved…"

Snape laid down his quill and blew on the wet ink. "Have you straightened your bedclothes?"

"Not yet." Harry traced his fingertip along the back of his chair. Making the bed was stupid. He always mussed it up later anyway.

"Get to it, then." A flurry of papery whispers.

Harry frowned. "Don't they just make themselves?"

Snape paused, pivoting slowly on his stool. His pinched eyebrows spoke volumes.

"Well, you know," Harry said with a shrug.

"Obviously I don't…"

Harry scratched at his neck, feeling a bit daft. "I just mean…my bed's usually tidied when I come back from class—everyone's is—so I just figured…" He trailed off, shrugging again.

"You figured incorrectly," Snape commented, turning back around. "Apparently Professor McGonagall allows her students' responsibilities to be carried out by house elves. How utterly unsurprising."

"House elves?" Harry piped up, squinting inquisitively. "Here at Hogwarts?"

"An unfathomable concept…"

"You mean like Dobby?"

"Potter…" Snape said darkly, fingering his quill. "How does sleeping in flowered bed linens for the rest of the summer strike you?"

Harry's face fell. _Flowered_?

"Then I suggest," Snape continued, dipping the point into a pool of shiny black ink, "that you see to your assigned duty and do so quickly."

Harry shoved in his chair without hesitation.

"Return to the study when you've finished—I have something to show you."

"Yes, sir," Harry called over his shoulder.

-----

_9:00_

_10:00_

_11:00 _

The hour time-slots continued on down the page…

Harry wrinkled his nose as he stared at the open book in his lap. "What are all these for?"

"At the top of each page," Snape began, passing over Harry's question, "you will find the date." His desk stool scuffed across the floor as it dragged itself over to the table where Harry was seated. But Snape didn't lower himself just yet.

Harry glanced over his shoulder, up at his professor. "It's the 19th of July."

Snape smirked. "Very good, Potter, shall I award points?"

"Why start now…" Harry scowled half-heartedly down at his book.

Ignoring him, Snape rounded the table and took a seat. "Look at the bottom," he ordered.

Harry looked. Three locations were printed across the bottom of the page in Snape's spiky scrawl:

_**Library------Slytherin Commons------ Great Hall**_

"What about them?" Harry nudged his glasses further onto his nose as he peeked up.

Snape leaned his forearms onto the table and clenched a fist in the opposite hand. "What time is it now, Potter?"

Harry craned his neck over his shoulder, squinting at the clock. "Eight fifty-two…or wait, no…three. It's eight fifty-three."

"At precisely nine o'clock—_pay attention_."

Harry turned. "I'm listening."

Snape narrowed his eyes and began again. "At nine o'clock, you are free to venture to one of three areas for each allotted hour—"

"Only _three_?" Harry gawked at him. "What am I supposed to do in the library?"

"Interrupt me again and I will make it two."

An irritated silence wafted between them.

Harry studied the page in front of him to refrain from glaring at Snape the way he wanted to.

"Now," Snape continued, "you may stay in the common room, your dormitory, or the library until twelve o'clock noon when you will need to go to the Great Hall for lunch. You may return to the library or the common room after that, but I will expect you back in the study at three o'clock."

"For what?"

"It isn't called a _study_ for nothing, Mr. Potter…"

Harry made a face. "Half of my homework's already finished."

"Save your moping for something worthwhile," Snape scolded in a low voice. "An hour a day with your schoolbooks will not kill you."

When Snape paused, as if waiting for an argument, Harry glanced away, knowing this one wasn't worth pressing. Snape continued, "I will usually be present for breakfast and dinner, which we will eat here, in this study, unless the headmaster requests otherwise. I cannot watch you every second this summer, Potter, so it is vital that you adhere to the schedule."

Harry's shoulders stooped. "So as long as I'm back for lunch and studying and dinner, it's all right if I hang round the castle?"

"Not so quick, young man," Snape said slowly, lifting a pointed brow.

Harry inwardly braced himself. He knew that had sounded too good to be true.

"Before the hour has expired, you will return to my study and record your destination in this book, even if you are spending time in the dormitory."

Harry blinked. "Every hour?"

"Correct." Snape's face was as immobile as ever and his arms rested calmly against the table, as if he and Harry were discussing the weather.

"But what if I just stay in the library all morning?" Harry wondered. "I still have to come back and tell you where I'm going to be next?"

"Every hour."

A whining complaint arose in Harry's chest, sliding around, nagging him. His mind raced.

"What if you give me something to carry around that lets you know where I am all the time?"

"This is not up for negotiation."

Harry slumped in his seat, rather put-out. "What if I forget to come back?"

Snape stood in one smooth movement, his hem trailing him to his desk. He chose a new, smaller quill from a gray pot and wetted the tip with ink.

"You won't forget."

"But what if I do?"

Snape's brows drew together as he peered at Harry from over his shoulder. "How disappointing that would be…"

Harry felt his cheeks prickle hot. "It's not as if I'd do it on purpose," he mumbled, staring at a worn spot in his jeans.

"No," Snape agreed, tapping the bone-colored quill stem on the edge of the pot to shake off excess ink. "To do so would be foolish and irresponsible, not to mention, inconsiderate."

"I'm not foolish…"

Snape strode toward Harry's table, holding out the quill. Harry reached out to take it from him, but Snape held it tightly between his thumb and fingers. Harry glanced up, his forehead creased; Snape held his gaze calmly.

"You will put forth your best effort in obeying the guidelines of your schedule because I expect nothing less. Do you hear me?"

Harry gave him a feeble nod.

"Then say so."

"Yes, sir."

Snape released the quill and sat down again. He pointed to the space next to nine o'clock. "The library?"

"I guess so," Harry said, rather unenthused. His face was still warm.

"Do something productive; don't simply sit and sulk…"

"I don't sulk."

"Quiet, Harry," Snape muttered. He shook the hair out of his face with a quick, impatient twitch and pointed to the bottom of the page. "Press the tip of the quill to your destination."

The letters glowed blue.

"Then what?"

"Touch it to the time."

"The nine o'clock?"

"Touch it," Snape repeated.

Harry obeyed. Both time and destination shone the same color.

"Now against the blank space."

Harry watched as fine print began to bleed into the parchment:

_**Potter, Harry**_

_**8:55 a.m. - ?**_

_**Library**_

"It knows the time?" Harry squinted up at Snape, quill poised mid-air.

"When you return after the hour is spent, you will need to touch the space again to record the time," Snape went on to explain, sliding the book away from Harry's nose. "Then begin again with the next hour."

"The book will know if I'm late?"

Snape twisted the volume around to inspect Harry's work. "_You_ will know if you are late." He flicked his eyes up to Harry's. "Will you not?"

Harry scraped his thumbnail along a ridge in the tabletop. He nodded.

"Good," Snape commented, closing the book with a snap and sliding it to the middle of the table. He rose from his chair. "Keep this here."

"What about after dinner?"

"What about it?" Snape peered down at Harry with a suspicious frown.

"I just mean…" Harry scratched his fingers through the back of his hair and shrugged. "Do I have to stay in here all night, or can I go visit Hagrid or something?"

"The first step you take out of this castle without my knowledge will be your last…"

"I wouldn't go without telling you," Harry mumbled. He wanted to be annoyed at Snape's distrust, but he found himself rather discomfited instead.

"Mm," Snape commented, unmoved. Harry wasn't sure if Snape believed him or not. At least he believed himself.

"You could go with me," Harry suggested, "or you could walk down there with me and Hagrid could take me back—he does that sometimes anyway."

"As much as I would love an after-dinner stroll," Snape said dryly, "my agenda is rather more taxing than your idling about…"

"I could practice Quidditch in the pitch," Harry continued, only half-listening to Snape's prattle. "You've got my broom?"

"You are squandering your first hour, Potter…"

Harry stood and shoved his chair in, but he still waited for an answer, thrusting up his nosepiece expectantly.

Snape curled his lips together.

Harry's cheeks sagged a bit; he held onto the back of his chair. "Didn't you say you held onto my broom for me?"

"It is in my office cupboard—exactly where a broomstick belongs."

A thoughtful pause. Harry shifted.

"It's not locked is it?"

Snape's gaze darkened. "You have exactly ten seconds to find your way out of this study before l adjust your first hour's objective to scrubbing burnt cauldrons at the classroom sink."

Harry pulled a face. "Why would you scrub them if they're burnt?"

"Five seconds."

"I'm leaving…" Harry made a dash for the door.

"Do _not _run."

Harry slowed, stopping as he pulled open the heavy door that lead to the Dungeon corridor.

"To the fourth floor and nowhere else!" Snape called after him.

"I'll be back later—"

"An _hour_."

Harry wedged himself in the door to hold it open. "Yes, sir. I will."

A hint of a nod. "You can find me in the classroom. Go on, then."

TBC…

* * *

**Author's Note**: Thank you for your comments--I've read them all and appreciate the time you all put into providing feedback for this story. :-) And to my beta, Tabitha, thanks for catching my mistakes and being my all-around motivator.


	7. Searching

**Chapter 7: Searching**

Harry tipped back on the rear legs of his library chair and glanced around. Row after row of books stood perfectly aligned and still. It was so quiet that the air seemed to vibrate with the sound of Harry's breathing.

His palms squeaked obnoxiously against the tabletop as he lowered his chair again; the back of his neck tingled, as though someone was watching him from behind…as though Madame Pince would sneak up behind him at any second, shushing him with her raisin lips. She wouldn't, of course. The librarian was on holiday, like everyone else.

But for the first time in his Hogwarts career, Harry would have preferred her presence among the army of books, stiff-backed and sober as the Queen's guards. He could almost hear Hermione's admonishing whisper… _For goodness' sake, Harry, read! It's a library, after all._

Harry smiled to himself. He missed his friends already.

Ignoring the books, Harry pressed his fingertips against the glossy finish, studying the swirly pattern of his prints as he balanced his chin on the table's edge.

When he was younger, maybe eight or nine, he used to pretend that he was a detective, sneaking about the house in order to gather evidence to catch the criminals—Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon in his case—just like Inspector Morse on the telly. He wasn't supposed to watch that show, even though he and Dudley did sometimes when Aunt Petunia was outside gossiping with the neighbors, at least until his cousin got bored and began grousing out the window for another snack.

Once, Aunt Petunia had caught him using a bit of flour to find prints on the coffee table and made Harry polish the entire piece of furniture, with complimentary smacked fingers, using the foul lemon oil that made his nostrils crinkle.

Staring at the smudges, Harry polished away his fingerprints with the hem of his shirt, still thinking. Detective was a stupid game, really. A baby game.

Discovering the truth about the Sorcerer's Stone hadn't been a game—at least not in the end—it had all happened mostly by chance, with massive help from Hermione, of course. And finding the Chamber of Secrets last December hadn't exactly been fun. Sure, he had wanted to help, but if Snape wouldn't have been there with him—

Blowing his breath out, Harry eased his chair back and stood, trudging over to the nearest window. Boredom only made him think about things he didn't want to. Leaning his forearms against the cold marble windowsill, Harry sniffed, almost amusedly, as he gazed out among the grounds. Boredom at the Dursleys was the reason he had invented the game of Detective in the first place…

Coming up on his toes, Harry balanced his weight against his elbows and squinted against the sun that had just peeked out from behind a passing cloud. He could see the top of Hagrid's hut in the distance and a portion of the forbidden forest from where he stood.

Harry cupped his hand over his brow to shield his eyes, hoping he might spot the top of Hagrid's wiry head among the pumpkin patch. But at almost the same instant, something moving near the edge of the forest caught Harry's eye.

A grayish-white cloud slid over the sun, dragging its shadow along the grass.

The animal trotted a few steps and then stopped, as if suddenly hearing a noise, sitting back on its haunches.

Harry tunneled both hands over his eyes now to get a better look at the small black mass.

A wolf?

The animal bent sideways a bit and used its paw to scratch behind an ear.

Harry's breath steamed on the glass. That wasn't a wolf…it was a dog. A very thin one at that.

The sound of a throat clearing jerked Harry out of his thoughts; his shoulders hunching up in surprise. He spun around, blinking.

"A glorious view—the best in the castle, I believe."

Harry tugged awkwardly on the hem of his shirt as he took a step back away from the window, very aware of his thumping heart. "Hello, Professor."

A soft smile, followed by a greeting nod. "Good morning, Harry." Professor Dumbledore removed his hands from the deep pockets of his emerald robes and clasped them behind his back, striding forward quite casually. "Has Hagrid been tending to the pumpkins this early in the day?"

"I'm not sure," Harry said, watching as Dumbledore tilted his head to glance out the window. "I couldn't see him."

"A bit early in the year for pumpkin cream trifle, but I do so look forward to Hagrid's updates on the progress of our pumpkin patch." He gave Harry a sideways wink from behind his sloped spectacles.

Harry smiled, snuffing out a small laugh through his nose, mostly because he couldn't think of anything to say.

"I take it you slept soundly?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir."

"You look well-rested, I must say." Another crinkly-eyed grin.

Feeling his cheeks prick with warmth, Harry dropped his eyes slightly. Dumbledore hadn't said a word that would cause him embarrassment, but that stiff feeling of unsaid _something_ swirled over both of their heads. Harry knew better.

"Might we sit for a moment?"

Harry shrugged, scratching at his jaw line, even though he didn't have an itch. "Sure."

Two chairs automatically scooted themselves away from the nearest library table as the headmaster walked towards them. Harry trailed behind but seated himself first at Dumbledore's gestured request. Settling himself into the chair cattycornered from Harry's, Dumbledore folded his hands against the tabletop.

A wave of realization sloshed over Harry's entire body just then, reddening his neck and ears, causing him to lower his gaze, away from the gentle blue of Dumbledore's eyes.

Yes, he certainly had known better.

"I assume Professor Snape has informed you of my visit to Surrey."

Harry concentrated on wrapping up his forefinger in the edge of his t-shirt like a scroll. He nodded without looking up.

A short silence passed between them; Harry didn't want to think about the Dursleys anymore, especially Marge. He knew he should ask about at _least_ one of them, since Harry was almost positive that Uncle Vernon had seen him use the portkey, but the questions remained anchored in his stomach like hard lumps. He knew, however, that ignoring the subject all together would get him nowhere.

"Thanks for my getting my stuff," Harry muttered; glancing up over the rims of his glasses, he forced a thin, quick smile, then gazed back down at the finger he'd successfully tangled into fabric. "The Dursleys don't fancy magic all that much…"

The understatement of the century.

Harry swallowed, still focused on his fidgeting. He didn't know what made him say that…as though the situation deserved an apology.

"Professor Snape tells me you've settled into the Slytherin dormitory," Dumbledore interjected among the quiet.

Lifting his eyes, Harry studied the headmaster's face—wrinkled and temperate as always. Devoid of inquisition.

Harry pushed against his seat with the heels of his hands, un-slouching himself, grateful that Dumbledore seemed to have read his mind. "It's a lot like the one in Gryffindor tower…except for the colors."

Creases fanned at the corners of Dumbledore's eyes as he considered Harry warmly for a moment, the way a granddad looks at his grandson, listening; smiling all the time. But then, the headmaster sobered his expression. "You appear to be quite happy here."

The statement took Harry by surprise—contrasting as it was to the fading smile behind the large beard. He flushed again, shrugging. "I'd rather be here than anywhere else…"

A sudden fog passed over the sky blue of the headmaster's eyes. His mouth pursed together, if for only a second, and then the slow, familiar smile returned to the aged lips. "And I'm happy to have you," Dumbledore said. He raised his brows. "Professor Snape has shown me the work you completed with him during the spring—rather impressive."

Harry pushed his glasses up with a fingertip, frowning a bit at the sudden topic change. "With the storage room?" he asked, wondering if Dumbledore was referring to the sporadic relabeling and organizing of potions he had done for Snape during the months of January through March.

"No," Dumbledore said gently, rearranging his clasped hands against the table. "I'm referring to your study in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Oh…that."

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied, nodding once. "You completed a most inspiring essay on the difference between instinctual and strategic Defense…an O.W.L.-year concept."

Now Harry's forehead itched; he scratched awkwardly as he mumbled his thanks. "I don't write as well as Hermione, though."

Dumbledore smiled—a sympathetic response. "Miss Granger excels in certain areas…and you in others."

It wasn't true. Hermione was tops at everything. But Harry didn't feel like proving Dumbledore wrong.

"You and Professor Snape are getting along, I take it?"

Harry peeked up at him. "Snape?"

"Professor Snape, yes."

"Yeah," Harry agreed with a one-shouldered shrug. "He's all right. I mean…" The itch worked its way around to the nape of Harry's neck now. "He teaches me Defense, and I help him with things."

"Ah," Dumbledore commented. "You have reached an understanding, it seems."

A short pause. Harry hadn't thought about it much. "Yeah…in some things, I guess."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "You would like to continue learning Defense with Professor Snape, then?"

Harry tried not to appear as lost as he felt. "Why? Has he said anything about it?" Maybe the new professor didn't want Harry to have two teachers… Was that why Snape didn't seem to like him?

"Oh, no," Dumbledore said casually, "he hasn't." His lips tilted again. "Forgive my curiosity—the tendency of an old man."

Harry pressed his lips together, squashing his own half-hearted grin.

The headmaster studied Harry's face for a moment longer, as if he were going to ask another question. But then he simply said, "Very well, then. I shall leave you to your reading."

"Erm…"

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore remarked as he stood, glancing around the empty room. "The disadvantage of having such an extensive library…too many to choose from." He spared Harry a wink among his gazing about. "May I suggest one?"

Harry nodded, watching as Dumbledore glided over to a nearby shelf with ease and summoned a thick book with a bright red cover. It landed with a soft _thud_ on Harry's table.

"_Living History_ has always been a favorite text of mine," the professor commented as he strode back toward the table. "I regret that that Professor Binns' history _class_ failed to have the same effect." He glanced down his nose mischievously at Harry. "If I'm not mistaken, you should find some interesting information on medieval wizardry around page forty-three—for your history essay, correct?"

"Yes, sir, I've yet to write it." Still amused by Dumbledore's rather polite jab at the History of Magic professor, Harry bit his lip to keep from grinning as he flipped to the right page.

The wispy ink illustration of an old witch in ancient-looking robes immediately popped off the page a few centimeters and began speaking to Harry, almost like a Muggle book-on-tape, summarizing the content of the chapter in an eerie voice.

Harry glanced up at Dumbledore when the illustration settled after finishing its preface. "Thanks, Professor, this'll help loads…"

A thoughtful haze seemed to cloud Dumbledore's face once more, but finally, he dipped his chin in a nod and smiled back at Harry. "You are more than welcome, child."

***********

With his book clamped against the inside of his forearm, Harry ran through the main floor corridor and down a flight of steps, leaping over the last few and landing so hard on the soles of his trainers that his feet stung.

The ten o'clock chimes had only stopped gonging a few seconds ago. Or was it a few minutes?

Bolting down the dungeon corridor, Harry rounded the corner and slowed, his chest heaving with hot gusts of air that dried out his throat and made him long for water. Legs buzzing from the exertion, Harry pushed open the door to Snape's quarters with both palms.

Empty.

Just as Harry had expected…

He smoothed the sweat off of his forehead as he moved toward his desk, combing his fingers through his fringe. His hair was sticking up in the front now, as well as the back, but Harry didn't care. Plucking the quill from his desktop, he poked the tip into the waiting pool of ink that Snape must have left for him. He gazed at the parchment, hesitating a second longer before he touched the quill to the only box with his name in it. The ink glimmered a soft red this time.

10:08 a.m.

Harry stared at the numbers, his hand slowly falling to his thigh, the quill still pinched between his fingers.

He was late.

Over five minutes' worth of sprinting down six flights of stairs and more bloody corridors than Harry could count on both hands led him to nowhere but this ugly record book with its glaring accuracies.

His breathing had slowed, but each intake still burned Harry's lungs and made his hot cheeks pound with a pulse.

His first hour of Snape-approved freedom and Harry was eight minutes late.

Tossing his _Living History _book on the seat of his desk chair, Harry blew out a long breath through his nostrils and plopped back on the sofa, his arms drooping against the cushions.

This schedule was rubbish.

Harry sulked for a moment, wondering whether he should make up an excuse for his tardiness or simply sign the book and scamper off to his next destination in hopes that Snape wasn't one to check it over each night.

Bloody likely.

Scraping designs into the rug with the ball of his trainer, Harry had nearly readied his self-convicting gumption when he caught sight of Snape's wrinkled copy of the Daily Prophet folded on top of the coffee table.

But it wasn't just the paper that caught Harry's attention—he had read the Daily Prophet on a weekly basis last year. Rather, it was the half-exposed gray and black photograph underneath the headline.

From where Harry sat slumped on the sofa, he could just make out a pair of eyes, round and shifting—almost wild—and a forehead surrounded by twisted clumps of dark hair...

Picking up the paper, Harry unfolded it and stared down at the sallow, thin face of the man in the photograph. His eyes held Harry's own like magnets.

Harry's gaze traveled up the paper to the headline stamped across the top of the front page: '**Sirius Black Escapes from Azkaban'.**

He didn't look quite like a barmy serial killer, like some of the ones Harry had seen on the telly; this man's eyes seemed frantic—almost frightened. But then again, Harry supposed not all criminals had to look the same.

Interested, Harry read the first paragraph of the article and then stopped, flicking his eyes over toward the door; he wondered if he should just spend his next hour in Snape's quarters, reading all about this bloke who had escaped from the wizarding prison not more than a week ago. He could explain it all to Snape later.

Maybe.

Harry glanced down at the article again, then over toward the schedule book. He knew better in this circumstance as well.

With Snape, no amount of explaining would excuse his tardiness—not even on a normal day.

Folding the newspaper into eighths, Harry stood up from the sofa and shoved the thick wad into his back pocket for later.

-----

Harry cracked his knuckles before knocking on Snape's classroom door.

There was the sound of a stool scraping against the stone floor, and then, "Enter."

Having closed the door quietly behind him, Harry stood across from Snape, who was sitting on a stool at one of the student lab tables, hunched over a bubbling cauldron, his hair hanging in his face. He waved his hand through the curling steam and then he looked up.

Harry stared at him for a few seconds.

Snape's brows shot up in preoccupied acknowledgement. "What is it?"

"Oh…" Harry shook his head, as if clearing out the cobwebs, and shifted his weight to the other foot. "Erm…"

The professor's thin brow rose even higher.

"What are you brewing?" Harry asked, climbing up onto a stool and stretching his neck out for a look.

"Get back." Snape held up his hand as he reached across the table for a tiny vial of oily red potion. "The steam is potent…and very hot."

"Can't be that bad," Harry noted. "You've just had your face right in it…"

Snape ignored him, carefully tipping three drops of crimson solution into the cauldron instead.

A mushroom cloud of blue steam puffed into the air.

"You never told me what you were making," Harry said, after the burbling of the cauldron diminished, simmering once again.

"And you," Snape countered, poking a long stirrer into the potion, "never answered my question." He glanced up at Harry as he stirred.

"I had to ask you something…"

"Mm."

"Well…not ask, so much as—"

Snape cut him off, sliding something one-handed around his cauldron and across the table.

Harry stared down at the schedule book that lay open in front of him, identical to his own book that was still on his desk in Snape's quarters. The times were printed just as clearly. "You knew I was late?"

Snape was looking away again. Bowing his head, he frowned at a beaker, filled one-third of the way with a yellowish liquid, measuring with his eyes.

"Professor…"

"I heard you, Potter."

Harry hooked his feet around the rungs of his stool, chewing on the corner of his lower lip. He folded his hands in his lap and flicked his thumbnails together as he watched Snape hold the glass container close to the candlelight.

"Then how come you're not shouting?"

Snape paused, his lids sinking closed as he released a slow breath through his nose. "Have you any idea how few seconds it takes for liquidized valerian root to congeal when heated if not given the utmost vigilance?"

"Not really," Harry answered truthfully. "Should I?" He leaned forward on his stool a bit and fiddled with the silver-plated stirrer that was now drying on a cotton cloth that Snape had laid down.

"I would expect nothing less, Mr. Potter," Snape muttered, carefully pouring the pollen-colored concoction into a simmering cauldron; strands of black hair, curled at the edges, fell over Snape's left eye. Readjusting the cauldron over the flames, he casually pushed the stray hair out of his face, holding it for a second. He cast Harry an off-handed glimpse.

His dark eyes flashed.

In an instant, the damp cloth was yanked out from under Harry's nose, the stirrer clinking against the table before landing in the open binding of a tattered potions text.

Wide-eyed, Harry sat stiffly, both hands behind his back; he blinked at Snape behind his glasses that had slipped down the bridge of his nose.

His professor glowered. "_What_ have I told you about handling unwashed utensils that have been laid out!"

The potion burbled unhappily; Snape ignored it.

Harry licked his lips with a dry tongue. "Sorry."

Snape continued to glare but lowered his voice considerably. "I put the stirrer on a cloth for a reason, Potter."

"I know," Harry said, willing his cheeks to stop burning. "I forgot. I'm sorry."

Snape sighed again, as if regaining his composure. "You'll remember for next time," he said softly. "Show me your hands."

"They're all right…"

"Palms _up_." The command was crisp but quiet.

Tilting his head in silent protest, Harry pulled his hands out from behind his back and held them out for Snape to examine. Harry's eyes zeroed in on the blue and orange flames licking the sides of the cauldron.

Harry's nose wrinkled. "It smells like burnt plastic."

Straightening up with a snap, Snape swore under his breath as he peered into the cauldron.

Harry sat on his hands, unsure whether to feel guilty or laugh…

Snape botching a potion? The idea was almost too much.

"You didn't ruin it, did you?" Harry leaned over on his elbows, his rear end suspended off the chair as he balanced his weight on his forearms to get a better look.

A brisk flick of black hair was Snape's only response.

Harry settled back down on his stool, pulling a contrite face. "I can go into the storeroom and get you some more ingredients if you want."

"No, Mr. Potter," Snape said through a sigh, "you cannot." He whipped his wand toward the cauldron, banishing the gloppy contents.

Harry bent the corner of the page in front of him, pretending as though such news was expected. "I was only thinking…"

"You wouldn't find what you need in the storage room; this was my last vial of liquid valerian root," Snape said. His voice had lost its edge, so Harry peeked up at him. "I'll have to go to the greenhouse this afternoon."

"Can I go with you?"

"No." The cauldron skidded noisily against the counter as Snape pushed it out of his way to wipe down the space underneath. "You have work to do…"

"I have _nothing _to do," Harry insisted, feeling rather sour all of the sudden. He looked away from Snape's pointed gaze. "The library's boring."

"I assume you didn't find it boring twenty minutes ago when you were supposed to have been recording your return…"

Harry cracked the knuckles of his other hand.

"Were you wandering elsewhere, Potter?"

Snapping his head up, Harry wrinkled his forehead. "No, I've been in the library all this time, like I said I would be."

"Mm?"

"Why would I wander?"

"Potter."

Harry averted his eyes from the stony glare. He knew the rhetorical question had been a bit much, especially after his tardiness. "Professor Dumbledore found me," Harry tried again, more politely, before Snape could get another word in. "He gave me a book for my History essay."

"And which book would that be?" Snape inquired absently, busying himself again, corking vials and cleaning drips on the table.

"_Living History_," Harry said. He picked up a tiny stopper that had rolled near the potions text. "Here—you've missed this one."

Snape took it from him without glancing up, murmuring his appreciation.

"I read something else too…"

"Mm."

It was more than obvious that Snape was bored off his nut. Harry would be waved away soon, as he usually was when the conversation took a rather mundane turn, but he gave it a go anyway.

"Yeah," Harry continued. "Do you know where Azkaban is?"

Snape's eyes twitched to attention. Harry watched them carefully.

"I do," Snape said slowly.

"Is it in Scotland?"

Snape gave a measured blink. "No. An island."

"Where?"

Dark brows descended over the black eyes like storm clouds. "Why?"

Harry dug his forefinger into his back jeans pocket to retrieve the wad of newspaper and then stopped. Snape might not have been finished reading it. Perhaps he wouldn't like it if he knew it had been nicked from the office…

He never minded Harry perusing it _there_, however.

"Sirius Black came from Azkaban, didn't he?" Harry probed, squinting behind his glasses in slightly feigned ignorance.

"He did," Snape drawled, eyeing Harry suspiciously. "Did you take my newspaper?"

"Erm…"

"Give it to me," Snape said with a snap of his fingers.

"I haven't finished reading it yet…"

"You've folded it up into your pocket, like you have done with the every weekend's newspaper since the New Year."

"Ron sometimes throws his away before I can read it," Harry explained, reaching behind him to retrieve it from his trousers anyway. "I haven't ripped it…"

"You have _creased_ it."

"Not very much…"

"_Ask_, Potter."

"I will next time…"

Snape reserved him one more glare before flattening the folds and shaking out the front page of the Daily Prophet.

"He doesn't look like much of a nutter," Harry said. 'Only a bit filthy...and thin."

"He's a convicted murderer, Potter…"

Harry heard Snape swallow, even among the rustling of the paper.

"Who did he kill?"

Snape stared at him; the paper drooped over like a wilting daisy. Wordlessly, he handed Harry the article. "Read it quickly and run along," Snape muttered tersely. "You could have had your essay finished by now…"

"Hardly," Harry sniffed to himself, holding the paper up to read. Picking up where he left off, Harry read all about Sirius Black, who had single-handedly murdered twelve Muggles with one curse. He had escaped Azkaban after twelve years of being locked up.

"On the North Sea…' Harry mumbled, the brief note in the article answering his earlier question. He looked up from his reading. "Do you think he swam all that way?"

Snape gaped at him. Then he rolled his eyes.

"What?"

"Finish reading; I've work to do…"

"How do you kill twelve people with one curse?" Harry wondered, eyeing Snape as he transferred a pile of graded essays from a nearby table to his desk several feet away, dropping them with a _splat_. When he got no response, he asked, "Do you think he's come to England or Scotland?"

Snape turned abruptly. "Have you finished?"

"Yes…"

"Then off with you."

"If I find Hagrid, may I go to the greenhouse—"

"No!"

Harry jumped at the sharp rebuke. He and Snape stared at each other for a long moment. And then, quietly, Harry slipped off of his stool.

"Wait, Potter." Snape rubbed his hand down his face. "Sit down."

Standing with his palm pressed against the seat, Harry fixed his eyes on the stirrer that still lay in the binding of Snape's potions book. "I can go…"

"You will sit," Snape said quietly, nodding toward the stool.

Sighing, Harry obliged.

"Sirius Black escaping Azkaban is not a game, Harry," Snape began, very seriously.

"I never said it was…"

"You spoke about his whereabouts as if you were discussing the weather," the professor continued. "Precisely what I feared would happen…"

"How am I supposed to talk about him?" Harry demanded, though he kept his voice as calm as he could. Snape's face remained still and solemn, so Harry continued. "I mean…it's not like anyone told me to look out for him; Muggles who've killed people escape prison all the time, and we never see them—"

"Enough."

Harry felt his chest deflate. He went back to focusing on the stirrer.

"Listen carefully, Potter," Snape said. "Just like the rest of the wizarding world, you are to consider every action with caution first and be on your guard until Professor Dumbledore tells us otherwise."

Lifting his eyes over the rims of his glasses, Harry studied his professor. "Is that why I'm following a schedule?"

"Why you will _continue_ to follow your schedule?" Snape corrected, raising an eyebrow.

"But why didn't you just tell me about all of this in the first place?"

"Because his escape has only been publically confirmed for a mere twenty-four hours…not even the headmaster was certain…" Snape glanced away as he said this.

"So we have to stay holed up here in the castle all summer?" Harry gave Snape an incredulous _look_.

"I didn't say that, Potter." The man's voice held a tired edge. "I said you are to be on your guard."

"The grounds are guarded, aren't they?"

Snape just looked at him.

Harry chewed on his lip, and then peered at Snape, all-but pleading. "I _swear_ I'll wait for Hagrid to pick me up at the castle and take me to the greenhouse. I promise."

"Mr. Potter…"

"I'll even wear the…" Harry gazed down at his chest. "Erm…"

"Professor McGonagall returned it this morning; it's in a desk drawer in my office."

"Right," Harry piped up, as if he'd known all along. "I'll go put it on right now."

"Just a minute."

Harry stilled on his stool, waiting. "Yeah?"

In a flash, Snape had rounded the lab table. He pressed two fingers under Harry's chin, lifting it. "You are to wait until I make contact with Hagrid and he confirms."

"I will—"

"Furthermore," Snape pressed on, "you are to visit nowhere but the greenhouse, and you will return in time for the noon meal."

"What about the lav?"

"I _mean_ it, Potter."

"Yes, sir, I know…"

Snape held Harry's gaze for another instant. "You will spend the afternoon working on your essay."

"Sure," Harry said with a shrug as Snape released his chin. The thought of squandering a bit of time with Hagrid made him feel rather invincible at the moment.

"You'll find what you're looking for in the bottom drawer of my desk—look nowhere else," Snape instructed. "I'm right behind you."

Harry grinned as he slid off of his stool and strode over to the door, bumping it open with his shoulder. "There's a dog outside…did you know?"

"Mm."

TBC…

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone who stuck around and caught up with this chapter, even though it's been awhile ;-) Too bad I can't write fan fiction for a living... And thanks for beta'ing, Tab!!


	8. The Clash

**Chapter 8: The Clash**

"I don't get why I'm not allowed to go."

Harry continued scraping the end of his fork through his mashed potatoes, streaking the butter into swirly patterns, flicking little hunks of off-white onto his plate, until Snape's fingers suddenly clamped around his wrist. Harry glanced up. Snape was scowling at him from across the small table.

"And I didn't realize I was dining with a toddler who plays with his food," the professor said stiffly before releasing Harry's wrist. "Eat your dinner," Snape's brows knitted together, "or leave the table." He picked up his own fork and speared a piece of yellow squash.

Harry sat, absorbing the rebuke; the slight tingle in his stomach quickly transformed into one of burning annoyance. "I've been helping you for three days now, you know—"

"Two and a half…"

"Same thing," Harry mumbled back, mimicking Snape's earlier scowl until the professor lifted his gaze; the black of Snape's eyes had dimmed somehow, but at least they hadn't turned into slits yet. Harry pushed just a bit further. "Besides, I haven't been late back from Hagrid's even once, and I've been working on my homework when you said I should."

"I know this."

"I even finished my Transfiguration homework, and it was awful…"

"You did."

"Then _why_ won't you let me go to Ireland with you?"

Snape lifted his eyes slowly as he lowered his fork; it barely clinked against the plate.

"I will be gone from early morning until dusk, Potter," he said quietly. "One day."

"So?" Harry countered in a tone that was more desperate than disrespectful. "I won't be any trouble…I'll stay out of the way, unless you ask me to help…I promise."

No reply.

Harry sat up straighter, a weak beam of hope brightening his mood. "I'll bring my Potions essay to work on." The hook. Harry tried to look enthusiastic. "I swear I won't be a bother," he reiterated. "I'm really good at keeping myself occupied if someone asks me to…"

"This isn't about that."

Harry's ribcage deflated like an accordion, a gray cloud of disappointment smothering his tiny ray of optimism like an arrogant bully.

"But…but I've never been there," Harry pleaded, his pork chop and potatoes lukewarm and forgotten. "I didn't even know there were other magical shops that sold stuff to make potions besides the one in Diagon Alley…"

"Hadrian does not carry _stuff_," Snape corrected with a curled lip. "He provides only his most valued customers with rare herbal elixirs in concentrated—"

"Concentrated form," Harry finished for him sourly; he jabbed at the rim of his plate with his thumb. "You already _told_ me twice."

The heat from the small fire burning in the hearth seemed to prick Harry's cheeks, even from across the room, in the brief stretch of silence.

"I have also told you to finish your dinner," Snape chided in the deep voice that Harry didn't enjoy hearing. "And you had better heed me."

Harry frowned down at his meat, which was beginning to look a bit sweaty. "I'm not hungry."

"Oh, do stop acting like a child, Potter." Snape picked up his fork again and stuck it into his pork chop, carving at it with his knife.

Flushing round the cheeks and ears now, Harry watched Snape chew his mouthful over and over. And over...

_Fine, then_, he thought, pushing back his chair. _Fine._

"Not until you've drunk your milk."

Pausing, Harry flicked his eyes over to the filmy, half-empty glass, feeling the urge to just leave it and go to bed.

Snape was still chewing. He raised an eyebrow.

Harry twisted his glass on the table, the wet ring of condensation swelling underneath.

"You would find the day's events to be exceedingly dull," Snape began after finally swallowing. "This is not a holiday…"

"I said I'd bring my homework."

"You say a great deal."

"How would you know I wouldn't like it unless I went?" Harry asked, not yet unwilling to back down over something so nonsensical. Snape was the one keeping it going, after all.

The professor polished off the final sip of his half-glass of burgundy wine. "Several of the ingredients I need must be extracted from Hadrian's garden and brewed on site in order to keep them potent, Harry, it will take hours." He set his goblet down. "You wouldn't enjoy it."

Harry was frowning again. "I suppose I can decide for myself, can't I?"

Snape's eyes iced over.

Looking away hastily, Harry reached for his milk and took a large gulp, fearing he'd gone a tad too far this time.

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

Harry swallowed too quickly at the sound, pulling down a bit of milk the wrong way. He managed to get it all down, however, before sputtering out a cough.

Snape's laser eyes were still burning holes in Harry's forehead. He expertly flicked his wand over his shoulder, without even paying a glance to the door, before extending a quiet follow-up (much too quiet in Harry's opinion): "Enter."

"Ah," came Dumbledore's gentle voice. "I've interrupted your dinner, I see."

"It's fine, Albus." Snape cleaned his mouth with the napkin in his lap, finally relieving Harry of the silent interrogation.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry as he strolled lightly over the thick Persian rug. "I had hoped to have a quick word with you, Severus, before you departed for Ireland—Poppy has requested a rather hefty supply of Hadrian's special stomach-soothing serum." The skin around his tiny spectacles crinkled. "Hello, Harry."

"If you were going to Ireland for the day," Harry piped up suddenly, "you'd let me go with you, wouldn't you, Professor?"

"_Harry Potter_!"

The harsh whisper shriveled Harry's insides like a dead leaf.

Snape's ice-eyes immediately thawed; they glowered like fire.

Harry froze, unsure where to look.

Dumbledore simply pressed his lips together, drawing in a thoughtful breath through his nose. "Perhaps," Dumbledore began evenly, as if Snape wasn't glaring five-meter-long daggers in Harry's direction. His beard tilted. "If you were given permission, of course…"

Harry studied his remaining dredge of warm milk as though it were the most fascinating thing in the room. His bit of pushing had unfortunately sent him hurling over the edge. Not on purpose, however…

It was becoming increasingly difficult to _really_ know when he'd overstepped his boundaries with Professor Snape.

Depending on the man's mood, Harry could get away with a bit of cheek sometimes, because then, Snape knew he wasn't being disrespectful.

Usually.

But on days when Snape was grim-faced and concentrating on an especially difficult potion or scowling down at a scribbled first-year essay—the days when strands of hair were left hanging too near his eyes—Harry knew to avoid any joking about. Those were the serious days.

Lately, though, Snape seemed to be leaping back and forth between both moods.

While Harry pondered this, effectively avoiding Snape's glare, he half-listened as Dumbledore prattled on a bit longer about Hadrian's Herbal Elixirs and Madame Pomfrey's reoccurring stomach ulcer. He only dared to flick his eyes up, allowing the fogginess of his mind to clear, when the discussion took a more interesting turn.

"…he will be here for a good portion of the day, I believe, preparing his classroom."

"How splendid…"

Harry didn't have to ask who they were talking about; Snape's tone was a dead give-away; his eyes had become stone again.

The smile in Dumbledore's voice didn't fade, however. "I shall let him know that Harry will be staying with me in the castle tomorrow. Perhaps Professor Lupin could show him what they will be studying this year in Defense Against the Dark Arts—more fascinating than Cornish Pixies, I must say." The slightest of winks. "What do you think, Harry?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak.

"Mr. Potter has promised to work ahead in his Potions text once he finishes his essay," Snape cut in, his throat sounding a bit clogged. "He has more than enough to do." With a brisk wave of his wand, the plates of cold dinner disappeared, leaving two dishes of pudding in their places. Snape brushed his hair back distractedly as he slid his wand in his sleeve.

"Oi, Treacle tart," Harry declared, picking up his clean fork, grinning for the first time in the last hour. "You never let me have this much."

"And tonight is no exception," Snape said curtly, pulling the plate away. Harry's mouth fell open, indignant. "You barely ate your dinner; therefore, pudding is out of the question."

"Oh, _come_ on, Professor…"

"You can have your bath, and then you'll retire to bed."

"Now, now, Severus," Dumbledore crooned, sidling the remaining few steps over to the table. He gently slid the plate back to Harry's place. "It's quite impossible to fall asleep on an empty stomach."

"It's impossible, Headmaster," Snape retorted as he yanked the plate away once more, much less smoothly than Dumbledore had, "to fall asleep with a stomach full of sugar." He pinned Harry with a cool look. "I will have a house elf reheat your dinner if you wish to eat it, Mr. Potter. Otherwise, I trust you know your way to the showers."

"I hate pork chops," Harry lied.

"_Goodnight_, then."

Snape's eyes narrowed in a way that made Harry feel like he'd swallowed a grapefruit. Nevertheless, he shoved his chair back. Feeling exceptionally, stupidly brave, he muttered as he walked out, "Just because you hate the new professor doesn't mean you have to take it out on me, you know…"

Harry had only walked halfway to the exit when he felt the wind from Snape's robes. An instant later, Harry was being escorted into the common room by a firm grip on his upper arm.

When they reached the middle of the rug, Harry had managed to twist out of Snape's grasp, but the professor was just as quick. He caught Harry's elbow again with one hand while positively slamming the other one against the boy's rear end in the form of a solid smack before Harry could arch away from him.

"What was that for?" Harry cried, wrenching around to face Snape, once he realized he was loose. "That hurt!"

"Let's get one thing straight, Potter," Snape snapped, his finger thrust right in Harry's face. "As long as you are staying in my quarters, I don't have to justify my decisions to you—"

"I didn't say you had to—"

"And I _certainly_ don't have tolerate your cheek," Snape continued, two spots of angry red blooming high on his cheekbones. "You are staying here at Hogwarts tomorrow, and that is final."

Harry swallowed against the frustration that made his throat swell. The heat in his face pounded in time with the tiny heartbeat now pulsing on one side of his bum.

"If I were you, young man, I would count myself fortunate, for you deserve nothing less than a day of restriction in the dormitory…"

"I wasn't trying to be cheeky," Harry said quietly; his own voice sounded strange in his ears. "I just wondered why I couldn't go is all."

"And I've given you reason enough."

They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Harry gave a half-hearted nod. He didn't want any more trouble—in _any_ form. "I'll go shower," he mumbled, turning toward the dormitory entrance.

"Soak in the bath instead." Snape's voice, less icy this time, followed him. "And use soap…you've been digging in the greenhouse all day."

Making a face that Snape couldn't see, Harry pushed open the door and headed for a clean towel.

* * *

"You must let it go, Severus."

"Must I?" The sneering tone spoke volumes.

Dumbledore wasn't smiling anymore; the shadows cast by the flames in Severus' fireplace danced about his broad, white beard.

Severus sat in a nearby armchair, his fingertips clutched around a small tumbler of deep gold bourbon now. He hadn't touched it.

"You're becoming irritable," Albus claimed. "And you've lost your patience with Harry…"

Snape's black eyes flashed. "You yourself have given me leave to curb the boy's insolence when necessary, Headmaster, and he is more than aware of his boundaries. Disrespect, I have never tolerated, nor will I ever—"

"Severus…"

"—if you expect me to indulge him with pudding when he—"

"_Severus_."

Dumbledore lifted his blue eyes over the rims of his spectacles and stared at him until Severus pinched his lips together and turned his face back toward the hearth, finally taking a sip of his bourbon.

Grimacing, he leaned forward and tossed the remaining liquor into the fire.

"Remus has had a difficult life," the headmaster said quietly after a while. "You of all people should understand how it feels to be cast away…isolated…"

Gripping his empty glass, Severus stared into the fire, still crackling noisily from its alcohol-rekindling. "Do not compare Remus Lupin's life to my own, Albus," Severus mumbled. "I hold no connection to that man."

"You are keeping him from physical and mental torment."

A sniff. "On your order…"

"No," Dumbledore disagreed easily. "Quite the opposite, actually."

Severus' upper lip twitched at the patronization.

"I merely made a suggestion, Severus."

"You know of my past with him." Severus turned, the reflection of the orange flames hardly concealing the accusatory hurt in his eyes. "You _know_ of it, Albus."

"I also know of forgiveness," Albus said, leaning forward. "I implore you, Severus; give this man a chance. He has lost everything. Help him to live again."

Severus swallowed, gazing at the hearth.

"He will be an exceptional teacher to Harry," Albus continued in a soft voice, "and to your Slytherins…"

Silence.

"He believes in practical teaching of Defense—hands-on—similar to your creed of the study, Severus; you can inform him of what Harry already knows…" Dumbledore smiled.

"Potter—" Severus cleared his throat, still staring. "Potter has school work to complete tomorrow. Please see that he attends to his studies in the afternoon."

A nod. "Very well."

"With Black at large, you know that he is safest here at Hogwarts, Headmaster…"

"I do," Albus agreed; he reached over and slipped the tumbler from Severus' loose grip, banishing the glass with a lazy flick of his wand. "I am not blaming you for restricting him, child, only…"

"Only what?" Severus spared the headmaster a glance.

Dumbledore smiled again. "I do believe I am growing soft-hearted in my old age."

Another sniff.

"Thank goodness for you, Severus."

TBC…

* * *

**Author's Note: Look for Chapter 9 by Saturday. Fall break = my hero. Thank you for the reviews from last chapter!! Everyone having a good October? **


	9. Wavering

**Chapter 9: Wavering**

The words blurred on the page as Harry stared down at his Potions text. He was sitting cross-legged under the covers of his four-poster bed in the dormitory with the open book resting on his lap. But he wasn't reading, really; his eyes might have been, but his brain didn't comprehend.

Sighing, Harry snapped the book closed and tossed it away from him; it slipped off the bed onto the floor with a thud, but he ignored it, reaching into his drawer for parchment, quill and ink instead. He figured he might as well write a letter to Hermione, as he hadn't gotten a chance to all summer. Harry was surprised that he hadn't received a letter of complaint from her yet, as she usually became irritated if he took longer than a week to respond.

Harry had almost finished with the first paragraph, when the door suddenly creaked ajar. He glanced up to see a black-covered foot nudge the door the rest of the way open.

Snape entered, carrying a tray, heavy with a full plate and a glass of milk. He paused in the doorway when he saw Harry sitting on his bed, his wet fringe still plastered to his forehead.

They stared at each other.

After a moment, Harry folded up his unfinished letter and screwed the cap back onto his bottle of ink; he could see Snape moving in his peripheral vision, but Harry didn't say anything. Closing the drawer to his night table, he stretched his legs out under his covers and slid down until his head hit the cool fabric of the pillow; he turned over on his side, even though it wasn't eight o'clock yet.

Snape was moving things around on his other side, but Harry only pulled his comforter over his shoulder and nestled his cheek into the pillow, blinking at the dark wood-grained pattern of the small table.

"Not even a severe cold could keep you from missing a meal, Mr. Potter…"

More scraping and clinking.

Harry's stomach churned with hunger and another feeling he didn't want to bother with, but he remained silent. He'd taken a bath and even got into bed without complaint; what else did Snape want? An old-fashioned truce?

Bloody likely…

"I also take it you showered instead of bathed, like I asked you not to…"

Harry made a face. Now, _that_ was too much.

He pushed the covers away a bit, flipping over onto the other hip. He gawked up at his professor, who stood, rather coolly, near Harry's bed. "My fingers look like raisins," Harry declared, holding out a hand, palm-up, for him to inspect. "I might as well've soaked my skin off…I was in there forever—"

"Found your tongue again, I see." Snape seemed to smirk at his own cleverness. "How unfortunate for me."

Slowly, Harry lowered his head back onto the pillow, annoyed at himself for actually falling for such a lame trick. He picked at the corner of the fabric, thinking of a dozen things he'd _really_ like to say with his newfound tongue...

"Well, are you going to sit up, or shall I spell this into your stomach like a comatose patient?"

"I'm not hungry."

Harry's stomach growled fiercely, as if to disagree; he turned his eyes to his pillowcase, even more irritated at his traitorous involuntary instincts.

"You, Potter, are the worst liar I have ever come across," Snape said evenly.

Rolling his eyes, Harry thought about how wrong Snape was; he'd lied to the Dursleys a hundred times, and they were none the wiser.

Probably because they _weren't_ all that wise…

"Get up."

"I don't want anything—hey!" The blankets suddenly disappeared, leaving Harry's feet bare in the cool dungeon air. He pushed himself up with his elbow. "You going to force-feed me, or what?"

Snape grabbed his arm and hauled him the rest of the way up before tucking his hand under Harry's armpit and resituating him, none-too-gently, against the headboard. He gave Harry a look.

"I just don't feel like eating, Professor…"

"And I rarely feel like waking up in the morning, Potter," Snape countered, transferring the tray from a nearby chair to Harry's bed, while he transfigured it into a squat table, "but I hardly have a choice." He plopped the contraption over Harry's lap, and pinned him with a black stare. "Do I?"

Harry gazed down at two pieces of thick bread slathered with white stuff and a pile of celery sticks and peanut butter.

"Eat," Snape said resolutely, his face still and serious now, "and then you may go to sleep."

Scraping his fingernail along the corner of a stalk of celery, Harry chewed on the corner of his bottom lip.

"I have never known a twelve year old to sulk over a smack as much as you have tonight." Snape's voice was low and mildly admonishing. "I am reaching my limit, young man."

"I don't care about that," Harry mumbled, though he did care a little.

A thoughtful pause.

"Are you ill?"

Harry shook his head. "No, sir."

A heavy nasal sigh.

Harry stuck the end of his celery into the smear of peanut butter.

"Do you know what a dementor is?"

Glancing up at the unexpected question, Harry nudged up his glasses with the back of his wrist. "No…"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Aside from what you've learned on your own, your Defense Against the Dark Arts training has been abysmal; I can't say I'm surprised."

Harry shrugged. "What's a dementor, then?"

Sitting down on the edge of Harry's bed, Snape nodded toward Harry's plate. Taking the hint, Harry rescued his celery from the glob of peanut butter and took a bite, his mouth watering.

"You read about Azkaban in the newspaper several days ago…"

"Yeah?" Harry slurred around a mouthful of food.

The wrinkle between Snape's eyes deepened.

"Sorry." Harry swallowed. "Yes, sir, I remember."

A single nod. "Dementors are responsible for guarding the prison and keeping the prisoners from escaping."

"Then how did Sirius Black get out?" Harry wondered. "Did he kill one?"

"Dementors cannot be killed, Potter…"

"Why not?" Harry took a bite of bread this time. Cream cheese… He'd never really taken to it, but tonight, it tasted good.

"It takes a strong defensive spell to ward them off, but that is beside the point," Snape said, gesturing absently to the full glass of milk on Harry's tray.

"So they're not wizards?" Harry asked, breathing deeply after gulping down several long sips of cold milk.

"They are not," Snape affirmed, handing Harry the napkin that had been folded underneath his plate; he waited while Harry wiped away the film of milk on his upper lip. "Dementors are dismal, heinous creatures that feed off of human emotions."

Harry blinked, listening.

"They have been known to suck out a prisoner's very soul if ordered to," the professor continued. "Which…" he raised both eyebrows this time, "…is why I want you nowhere near an unprotected area…"

"But—"

Snape help up a hand to silence him. "Let me finish."

Harry pulled off a crust of bread and twisted it between his fingers.

"On the Minister's orders, a hoard of Dementors has been stationed along the coast of Ireland for the past week."

"Why Ireland?" Harry bit into another piece of celery, chewing and swallowing quickly. "Is that where Sirius Black is?"

Snape shook his head. "A cautionary arrangement... No one is certain."

"They'll never find him." Harry licked a bit of peanut butter off of his thumb.

"Hm," Snape commented, frowning.

"Criminals escape prison all the time," Harry explained, using his napkin again when he caught sight of Snape's pursed lips. "You hear about them on the news for a while, but the police never catch them…and then it just all goes away…"

"I see."

"Hogwarts is safe, though," Harry continued. "You told me yourself."

Still eyeing him, Snape swallowed slowly. After a moment, he nodded. "Finish your bread."

Harry obeyed, realizing, only after he'd polished off everything on his plate, including his glass of milk, that his stomach didn't feel so tight anymore.

Snape had waited until Harry finished eating before wordlessly moving the tray away from the boy's lap and banishing the lot. Wiggling back down toward his pillow, Harry curled his fingers around his lenses, pulling them away from his face.

"Hang on…" He paused, shoving his glasses back on his nose before flattening his hands against the quilt for leverage. "I'm not even tired yet; it's early—"

"It's late enough." Snape palmed the boy's chest. "And I'm leaving before the sun rises."

"Well, I'm not…"

Snape applied more pressure.

Harry blinked at him through the smudges on his glasses for a minute, and then dragged them down the bridge of his nose once more, holding them out; the frames folded in on each other as Snape pinched the nosepiece carefully and set them on the night table.

* * *

Standing in the middle of an empty corridor had always made Harry feel uneasy—as though he were late to McGonagall's class and about to walk straight into a scolding-session.

He could hear scuffling noises beyond the closed classroom door.

Reaching up to knock, Harry squeezed his fingers into a fist, hesitating. He glanced over his shoulder, certain that Peeves the poltergeist would be jeering at him any moment for standing around awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot as though his bladder might combust right down his leg.

Why had Dumbledore felt the need to arrange this meeting? Harry had barely even spoken to Professor Lupin. And it's not as though the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom held any fond memories…

Harry lifted his fist to knock again, but before his knuckles could make contact, the door swung open, sending him stumbling backwards; his reflexes better than they used to be, Harry caught himself by his the palm of his right hand, keeping himself from tumbling to the ground completely.

"Oh…" said a surprised voice. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Harry muttered, feeling his face color hotly as he managed to push himself up into a squatting position. A thin hand reached down and wrapped around Harry's upper arm, hauling him up.

Professor Lupin used his fingers to brush his sand-colored fringe to the side and gave Harry a shy smile as he held the door open with his forearm. "Remind me to get a window put in…"

"Right," Harry said, still feeling a bit stupid. The palm of his hand suddenly felt warm and stinging; he wiped it on the seat of his jeans, ignoring the burn that made him want to wince.

"Did you hurt yourself when you fell?"

Harry shook his head quickly. "No, sir, I'm all right."

Another crooked grin. "I'm not the world's best at brewing healing potions, but I might have some ointment..."

Shaking his head politely, Harry stuffed both hands into the back pockets of his jeans. "I'm fine, honest; just stings a bit."

"I was just now making a list of items I'll need for this year." Lupin's brows elevated in a friendly way as he tucked his chin over his shoulder to glance back into the room. The chairs were turned upside down on the desks, still, but it had the look and feel of a classroom-in-progress. "That is," he continued, easing the door closed, "until my stomach began growling like a mountain troll…"

Harry stepped back a bit, surprised to find himself smiling back at a man he hardly knew.

"I thought I'd head down to the Great Hall for a bite to eat," Lupin continued, straightening loose, faded robes over his knobby shoulders. "Have you had lunch?"

"I usually have it around noon…"

"It's half-past eleven now," Professor Lupin reported, strolling slowly away from his classroom. Harry followed. "Shall we take the long way?"

"I think they're all long ways."

A small chuckle. "I think you may be right."

* * *

Harry had been chatting pleasantly with Professor Lupin for the past fifteen minutes as they ate their lunches across from each other at a large, glossy table set up in the middle of the vast room. He was unlike any professor Harry had ever met—quiet…grinning all the time; Lupin had smile lines like Dumbledore but not as deep.

Harry also noticed that Lupin looked right at him when he was listening to Harry speak or asking him questions, the way Snape sometimes did if he wasn't in a foul mood.

Lupin even pretended as though he didn't notice the extra-large helping of green beans spilling off of Harry's plate and onto the table—a special, early-morning order from the dungeon, no doubt, much to Harry's embarrassment. Harry actually liked green beans quite a bit, as long as they were mixed with butter and salt, but it's not as if Snape had to go and make a _thing_ out of it…

But unsurprisingly, Professor Lupin waited to eat his chocolate sponge pudding until Harry had finished every last bean and his own small plate of treacle tart appeared.

"You said her name is Hermione?"

"She's really bright; you'll be able to pick her out right away."

"I noticed many from your class received high marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts last year—including you," Lupin commented, sectioning out a large spoonful of chocolate pudding and frozen custard.

Harry shrugged as he scraped his fork along his plate to gather up the last traces of treacle. "We didn't learn all that much."

"Oh?"

Snorting lightly, Harry licked his fork clean. "Lockhart's a dolt—though don't tell Hermione that…"

Professor Lupin chuckled. "You have my word."

Harry found himself smiling again. "Which defensive spells will we learn this year?"

"Oh…" Lupin began thoughtfully, as he alternately cleaned both hands with his napkin, "a great deal I hope—none you'll recognize, most likely."

"I learned Protego…"

"Have you?" Professor Lupin seemed genuinely impressed. "With Professor Lockhart?"

Harry shook his head. "Snape taught me." And then, feeling as though his tongue had suddenly been stung by a very large wasp, Harry bit down on his lip. He'd forgotten. "I mean," he amended, "I got it out of a book I was reading, too. I can learn it again if you teach it this year…"

"Protego is a fourth-year spell," Lupin said; he didn't appear to be miffed in the least. "I'm rather impressed."

Harry knew his cheeks were red, but he tried to smile back anyway.

"What other spells have you learned?"

Twisting his fork and letting it clink on his empty plate, Harry gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Not that many…" _Three books' worth is all_. And Snape was even planning on ordering him the fourth in the series. Harry was beginning to feel like Hermione…

"Professor Dumbledore tells me that you and Professor Snape make quite the team these days," Lupin said, taking an imaginary sip from his empty glass of water.

Harry set down his fork; he clasped his hands in his lap and tapped his thumbs against the seat. "He teaches me stuff."

"Does he?"

Harry scratched at his jaw line awkwardly. "He lets me help him with potions sometimes." Harry left out the part about Snape fixing him up a room in the Slytherin dormitory, even though he was quite certain that Professor Lupin took the hint when Harry had stumbled out from the common room in his pajamas with one eye barely open the other night. "He's in Ireland right now," Harry added.

"To restock potions ingredients," Lupin said with a nod. "Professor Dumbledore told me."

"He says there're Dementors in Ireland...searching for Sirius Black. Have you heard about him?"

The pink seemed to drain from Professor Lupin's face. He cleared his throat, his eyebrows peaking quickly in response. "Yes, I have." He picked up his glass, reaching for the heavy pewter water pitcher at the same time. "Would you like some?"

Harry shook his head, eyeing Lupin perceptively. "Thanks; I've got juice."

Lupin cleared his throat again and took a drink.

"He didn't want me to go because of that…"

Swallowing, Lupin used his napkin to catch a bit of water that dripped down his chin. "Because of the Dementors?"

"I guess."

"I believe they've been ordered to stay away from villages—they stay on the outskirts mostly…along the water," Lupin informed him, the color slowly blotching back into his pale cheeks. "No one has reported coming into contact with one…at least I don't think so."

Harry stared at him, his stomach slowly wrenching with hurt. "They're not dangerous?"

"Well," Lupin recanted, "yes, they can be—very."

Harry's eyes trailed down to his plate, now crusted over with sugary streaks.

"But the Minister has them under control, from what I've heard."

Flicking his thumb against his fork, Harry focused on the steady clinging…echoing louder than a bell tower.

What a rotten trick.

Professor Lupin cleared his throat one last time. "Well, I can honestly say, I haven't eaten this well in weeks." His honey eyes creased around the edges. "Thank you for joining me."

Harry nodded, his head still bowed.

"What would you think about coming with me to Diagon Alley this afternoon, Harry?" Lupin suddenly piped up. Harry lifted his head, temporarily jolted from his solemn reverie.

"Diagon Alley?" he repeated.

Smiling softly, Lupin gave a single nod. "I've got a long list of materials for my classroom I need to purchase, and seeing as it's a nice day outside—"

"I can go with you?"

Lupin raised an amused eyebrow. "We should probably ask the headmaster first…or Professor Snape?"

"He won't care," Harry fibbed, his indignation making him feel a bit reckless. Let Snape shout the castle down; he was off in Ireland, by himself…like he wanted. "He said he had to brew potions all day anyway."

"Perhaps, but there's still the headmaster…"

Like clockwork, a tiny scroll popped into the air and hovered in front of Remus' nose.

He unrolled the parchment, reading quickly…his eyes widening. "He's off to the Ministry for an hour." Lupin glanced up. "I suppose we could send him a note with our whereabouts…"

Ignoring the tiny twist of uncertainty in his belly, Harry grinned. "I haven't been there forever."

"We'll consider it a celebration, then," Lupin declared warmly. "It's been too long for me, as well."

TBC…

* * *

Author's Note: Okay, so I'm two days late....forgive me. I done tried my hardest... :-) Thanks for all the reviews from the last chapter; you guys rock! Hope you enjoyed this one?


	10. Expense

**Chapter 10: Expense**

The last time Harry had visited Diagon Alley and thoroughly enjoyed himself, he had been with Hagrid, even though the half-giant had hurried him along through all the shops in the limited amount of time they had to buy all of Harry's school supplies.

As he stood next to Professor Lupin in the middle of Flourish and Blotts, however, fingering the end of a floating, turquoise bookmark and looking on while the man thumbed through a volume as thick as his forearm, Harry had to keep reminding himself that he had gone here with Lupin to have a bit of fun for once. His rotten summer was on a downward spiral, after all.

"Do you use those?"

Harry blinked, his eyes coming back into focus. Professor Lupin was wrinkling his nose in thought as he flipped the book over to check the price tag, the way Ron had in the joke shop last summer before sliding the package of canary creams back on the shelf, pretending as if he hadn't looked in the first place. Professor Lupin didn't turn pink when he did it, though.

"Use what?" Harry asked, swatting the bookmark out of his face when it wouldn't stop hovering near his glasses.

Pinching his lips against a light smile, Professor Lupin raised both eyebrows and nodded once toward the turquoise menace floating like a charmed snake as it tickled Harry's nose with its fringed cord.

"What? This? Hang on—" Harry pulled an exasperated face before knocking the bookmark toward the ground with his fist. "Not anymore…"

"Put up quite a fight, didn't it?"

Harry nudged it with his toe, contemplating a kick, and then bent to pick it up; he brushed it off on his trousers. No use paying for one he'd mucked. "They're charmed to do that, I think…"

"Like everything else in these shops," Lupin said, his voice warm with amusement. "Have you studied these?"

Leaning over to get a better look, Harry glanced at the title of the book in Professor Lupin's hand: _Hinkypunks: A Light in the Darkness?_

The text was the second in a series of four volumes by Bartholomew Sprogg.

Harry peeked up at him. "Do you mean Hinkypunks, or books by that author?"

"Oh," Lupin began, flipping through pages again, "either, I suppose."

"We haven't learned about them," Harry told him, shaking his head.

"Price isn't too terrible…"

Harry ran his fingertips over a row of second-hand volumes. He didn't like talking about money. "Professor?"

Lupin added the book to his basket and lifted his chin in acknowledgement, smiling with his eyes.

"Do you know why…I mean—" Harry scratched at his earlobe. "—did you and Professor Snape have a row or something?"

It took a few seconds for Lupin to react—just enough time for Harry to feel the tingles of discomfort prickle his scalp. "Sorry…" He glanced away.

Bugger.

"Oh, no," Professor Lupin said lightly, shifting his basket from one arm to the other, "you don't have to be, Harry…" A grin slowly lit up his pale face. "I'm quite used to Professor Snape's conduct around me, you see."

"Oh…" But Harry didn't see.

Not quite.

"I think he fancies Defense more than Potions, even though he's never said so," Harry ventured, knowing very well that Snape would have flattened him like a deflated rugby ball right about now.

"Ah," Professor Lupin commented with a nod. "Unfortunately, I'm a bit biased when it comes to potion-making, so I can't say I'd disagree with him."

Everything was so easy with this man. Harry was suddenly gripped with the urge to shout a swearword in front of him, just to see what would happen. Even his sandy eyebrows seemed to smile.

"Is that why he's been so cross, then?" Harry's teeth pulled at the inside of his lip.

Just a bit further…

"Hm," Lupin began, furrowing his forehead in thought as he squinted down at a series of silver-stamped letters on a worn binding. He flicked his eyes toward Harry once more.

Oy.

Harry begrudged his questioning silently. _A bit far_.

"I suppose it's always strange to see an old school mate," the professor continued in a casual tone, placing his second book in the basket with the first, "especially one who belonged to your rival House."

Harry blinked.

"Slytherin and Gryffindor still not the best of friends, I take it?"

Lupin pressed his lips together against another grin.

"We've won the House cup over Slytherin twice now…" Harry supposed he could play along; adults were daft sometimes. "Sir, do you mind if I go next door to Gringotts? I haven't any money with me—it'll only take a moment." Harry had no idea what he wanted to buy, but for some reason, today, the walls of the book shop seemed to be closing in around him.

Professor Lupin evened out a row of volumes with a nudge of his knuckles as he eyed Harry thoughtfully. "Gringotts is a couple shops down, I believe."

"Yeah."

"I can go with you if you'd like," Lupin suggested. "They can hold these old things behind the counter until I return." He lifted his basket for emphasis.

Harry shrugged. "It's all right, Professor; I'll hurry." He let his eyes wander over the second-floor railing, trying to ignore the squiggly feeling in his gut that had lingered since lunch. Intensified, even.

"Do you have your key?"

Digging his fingers into his back pocket, Harry retrieved the small silver key and held his palm open for Lupin to see.

The professor gave an approving nod and lowered his gaze rather mischievously. "Goblins aren't the friendliest sort…"

"They're okay… I've been before." Harry shifted.

"By yourself?"

Slight hesitation.

Harry nodded; he bit on the corner of his bottom lip. It was a lie. But he _had_ been to Ollivander's by himself, and he had been barely eleven then.

"And you'll come straight back?"

"Yes, sir."

"I did tell Professor Dumbledore we'd Floo back by half-past three at the latest, and it's only a bit past one…"

Harry nodded quickly. He rubbed his hand over the messiest portion of his hair as he waited for a response.

Lupin's lips twitched, his eyes shining with warmth. "All right, then. Go on."

* * *

A thin cloud of Floo powder wafted around the rim of Alexander Hadrian's ceramic jar once Severus had slammed it back onto his gnarled wooden mantel.

The note from Albus was still clutched tightly in his hand, the ink smeared by the octopus oil that still remained on Severus' fingertips.

Floo-calling the Headmaster during a meeting with the Magical Law Enforcement Squad—even though it had most likely ended moments ago—was tactless, even for Severus. But tact, along with common level-headedness, seemed petty and idiotic these days.

Once again, Severus was forced to make a fool of himself. Once again, Albus Dumbledore had diluted his credibility. Patronized his authority.

_No more_, Severus silently seethed. His throat rippled around a painful swallow.

No more.

"Professor?"

Severus jerked his eyes toward the thin face hovering in the green flames flickering about the soot-smeared walls of Hadrian's fireplace.

"Excuse me, Severus," the man spoke again, blinking rapidly. "I'm afraid Albus is in a brief meeting with the Minister—this one adjourned a bit early, you see."

Severus pressed his teeth together, smashing Albus' note, detailing Harry's whereabouts, into a tendril.

"Shall I send word of urgency?"

"No," Severus said quietly, gaze grazing over the ceramic jar he had just nearly cracked. "That won't be necessary."

"Any word at all?"

Severus forced eye-contact. "No."

"Very well." The Ministry official spared Severus a brief, empty smile. "Good day, then."

The flames faded to emerald sparks and died.

"Your potion's boiling, Sev'rus!" A strangled voice floated in from the next room—the laboratory.

Severus listened to the shuffling steps grow louder as Hadrian made his way toward the parlor. Standing in the middle of the threadbare rug that lay in front of the hearth, its edges gray and curled, Severus ran his soiled fingers through his hair as he stared at the crushed parchment in his fist.

"Banish it."

The wind howled through the trees; rain began to splatter against the windowpanes. Severus threw the wadded note into the cold fireplace.

"Banish…" Hadrian trailed off, dumbstruck. "Sev'rus, you can't possibly be serious; it's been brewin' for over an hour now—"

"I'll begin again when I return," Severus said tightly, cutting him short; sweeping his hair out of his eyes, he turned and began gliding forward, past the squat, ginger-haired wizard who studied Severus quizzically through squinty blue eyes as he plodded after him into the next room.

"You do realize what you'd be throwin' away, lad?"

Severus pulled on his outer robes, averting his gaze. "Charge me double for the lost ingredients."

Hadrian's eyebrows elevated toward his hairline.

Without another word, Severus spun on his heel and was gone.

* * *

Harry double-knotted the cord of his small leather coin purse and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans as he descended the steps of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. He had withdrawn twenty galleons, uncertain how much anything would cost in Quality Quidditch Supplies, which was the only store Harry was interested in perusing. Maybe the ice cream parlor, as well…

He allowed his eyes to graze over the shops across the street—the entrance way to Knockturn Alley stood out like a dark, looming shadow among them. Small figures shrouded in black hobbled along in the distance, barely materializing among the gloom. Harry scratched at his forearm where goosebumps had sprung up—he had only been to Knockturn Alley once, on accident, and he didn't care to ever go again.

Glancing further down the street, Harry spied a horde of children—some his age, some older—crowded about a store window, a few with their noses pressed to the glass, their hands cupped over their eyes.

He smiled, knowing quite well which shop that was.

Harry started back toward Flourish and Blotts, walking rather quickly as he weaved in and out of people passing by. Perhaps Professor Lupin would have purchased his books by now… Harry hoped so, anyway.

Lost in his thoughts, he suddenly skidded to a halt to avoid crashing into a young-looking witch, who had lunged forward a bit to catch the hand of her tiny daughter who had almost darted out into the cobblestone street. The woman smiled apologetically at Harry.

Harry watched them go, the little girl galloping ahead, tugging at her mother's arm. Turning back around, Harry's face fell, along with his stomach.

Snape was standing at the top of the staircase leading to the Apothecary, his face looking grimmer than ever, even from far away. Clad in black as always, the professor stood out like an ink blot against the rows of brightly colored bottles sitting in the windows.

The twisting feeling in Harry's belly intensified and his cheeks grew very warm, even though the breeze had cooled considerably since the last time he had been in England.

Harry stood cemented in place, staring at his professor as Snape lifted his chin to search the swarm of shoppers. He clutched at the bulge of coins protruding out of his pocket.

Dumbledore must have told; he must not have wanted Harry to go.

But hadn't Lupin received a reply from Professor Dumbledore? Hadn't he nodded and said everything was "all set"?

_I know he did_, Harry thought. He suddenly felt as tall and conspicuous as Hagrid and wished he could shrink to Professor Flitwick's miniature size.

If Snape saw him here in Diagon Alley, there was no telling what would happen. _Of course_, Harry heard a small voice inside his head reminding him, _it was all Professor Lupin's idea_.

But then again, judging by the way Snape felt about Lupin, Harry supposed that argument wouldn't hold much.

Snape had climbed down the stairs now; Harry couldn't tell if the professor had a hold of his wand or not. He certainly hadn't spotted Harry.

Yet.

Thinking quickly, Harry took two steps towards Flourish and Blotts, wondering if he could convince Professor Lupin to take an emergency trip through the book shop's Floo back to Hogwarts. For a second, he thought he'd lost sight of Snape, only to see him emerge from Quality Quidditch Supplies an instant later, scowling down at the group of boys who were still plastered against the shop's window.

Abandoning the slapdash plan, Harry made his move, slipping into a very thin alley way between Madam Malkin's Robes shop and a small jewelry shop that didn't open until 3:00 in the afternoon. Flattening himself against the cold wall, Harry pressed the back of his head into the stone. He closed his eyes, a wave of angry embarrassment washing over him.

This was beyond stupid. He felt like a complete prat, suctioned to the wall; this idea was shoddier than the first. So what if Snape ran into him? They were in the middle of a public street after all; what was the worst that could happen?

Harry chewed on his thumbnail, reconsidering.

He really didn't want to find out. But he also wasn't going to let himself remain hidden in an alleyway that smelled faintly of sewage and chimney smoke either.

Finding Professor Lupin and letting him explain seemed like the best solution. Didn't make his stomach feel any better, though.

Just then, Harry heard a scuffling noise further down the way. He leaned out a bit from the wall and spotted a thick lump of grimy fur peeking around the brick corner of the jewelry shop, pawing continually at what appeared to be an old fish and chips wrapper.

Harry glanced over his shoulder; people were still passing each other like cars in the street.

More scraping to his right.

The animal had poked its head around now; it stared at Harry through black shiny eyes, surrounded by dangling strands of its dull, matted coat.

Could it be the same one?

Mesmerized by the solemn, round eyes, Harry found himself smiling a bit; he slowly held out his palm, wiggling his fingers.

The dog let out a whine deep in its throat and started forward, first one paw, then the other. But suddenly, it froze, its ears perking up.

_It's all right_, Harry wanted to say but the words stuck on his tongue. Instead, he extended his hand a little further.

Sitting back on its haunches, the dog's whine grew louder. It took a step back.

Harry craned his neck to search the street again. A few of the boys that had been admiring whatever was displayed in the Quidditch shop window passed by, chattering excitedly. When he turned back around, the dog was gone; the oily fish and chips wrapper fluttered against the street as a rather cool breeze blew through the alleyway.

Harry felt his legs moving forward a few steps; his breath suddenly came in puffs of steam, his lungs seeming to shrivel as they sucked in frigid air.

A dark shrouded figure drifted around the corner of the building.

Harry's legs instantly felt as though they were filled with water. He pressed himself against the wall behind him, breathing deeply as a scaly, rotted hand hovered closer to his face.

His throat went powder dry; he had no insides.

Harry saw its hood fall back. His palms and elbows scraped against brick as he fought to move away, but there was nowhere to go.

Gray, scabbed skin invaded Harry's vision; he felt his eyes rolling back in his head; he was drowning in a cacophony of terrifying noise—a desperate, blood-curdling scream faded in and out of the sound of high-pitched barking. Harry heard the sound of his own head hitting the cobblestone, but he felt no pain.

And then, as if a light had been clicked on, the wailing stopped. The barking continued.

Warm, familiar hands cupped Harry's neck, lifting his head—he felt one of the hands on his face—heard a shout he couldn't decipher. He let his head fall to the side, weakly pressing his mouth against the forearm that held him to keep the vomit from climbing up.

TBC…

* * *

**Author's Note: Cheers to ObsidianEmbrace for being my beta for this chapter! (Thanks, Tabitha!) Lots to be mended, yes, but who likes a Utopia when it comes to Harry Potter? ;-) Thanks for sticking with the story and for keeping me encouraged with your reviews and messages. I'm working on Chapter 11 and will have it up soon! Enjoy the rest of the holiday!**


	11. Agreement

**Chapter 11: Agreement**

Harry's arms shook as he pressed his hands on the ground to lift his head. "What happened?"

"_No_."

The warning tone had Harry dropping his neck back against Snape's forearm faster than he'd lifted it. Not that he was complaining; the back of his head throbbed with a pounding sting, and Harry's whole t-shirt was covered in cool sweat—even his pants were soaked and clinging. At least his jeans were still dry…

Lifting his hands to his face, Harry jammed his fingers under his glasses to rub, sending them clinking onto the cobblestone.

The arm shifted slightly under his neck. "Your eyes hurt?"

"No," Harry groaned quietly from behind his hands.

"You hit your head."

A wave of cold nausea surged through him; Harry balled his hands into fists, digging them against his lids. "I'm gonna throw up."

Immediately, he felt his torso lifted into a sitting position. Harry sat very still for a minute, staring at the blurred image of the street, not caring if his glasses were smashed to bits. But he didn't throw up.

Tender fingertips touched the back of his head.

"No blood."

"Brilliant…" Harry's hands lay against his knees like dead weight.

"That means very little," Snape muttered stiffly from above. "You could have a concussion—_No_! You will _not_ stand until I give you leave."

Harry flattened his legs against the street again.

"Listen to what I say, Potter. For once."

Gazing down at the muzzy smear of gray and brown in front of him, Harry said nothing, only listened to the sound of his own heartbeat pulsing in his head, the words smarting more than the goose egg inflating on his scalp.

They sat quietly for a long moment, with Snape's fingers dabbing at Harry's skull; his head tingled as Snape made an arc with his wand from one ear to the other. Still, the man said nothing.

Harry blinked at the warmth that was threatening to coat his eyes as the memory of the afternoon—especially the last five minutes—slowly washed over him. Though a hundred thoughts swarmed through his mind, not a single one found its way to his tongue. The silence was choking him.

Suddenly, Harry felt Snape's hands underneath his armpits. "All right. Stand with me—slowly."

Harry dug his heels into the cobblestone once his backside was off the street. His legs were shaking so badly, he could hardly control them. As soon as Harry was righted, he felt a quick tug at the back of his shirt, as it had crept halfway up his back. The unspoken gesture caused Harry's throat to swell—and his face to burn—even under all that cold sweat.

Snape still had him under the arms. "I'm okay," Harry muttered.

"Don't lie to me." Snape shifted his arm and steadied Harry against him. His tone was neither harsh nor rebuking. Just tired.

Harry stood there, feeling the relentless perspiration dot his forehead, the waves of nausea continuing to peak and recede; he didn't have the strength to protest as Snape unfolded his glasses and pushed them onto his nose.

"Your head?"

Blinking as everything came back into focus, Harry tried to shrug.

"Well, does it ache or not?" Snape readjusted Harry's shoulder against his own chest, hoisting him up a bit.

Harry swallowed back the tightness, watching as the fish and chips wrapper lifted from the ground and floated out of sight, even though there was no wind to carry it. He nodded.

"We're going back."

"I don't want to go out there…" Harry nearly whispered. The thought of stumbling through the streets of Diagon Alley shaking and sweaty like this, with Snape holding him round the shoulders, was enough to make Harry pass out the rest of the way.

"I suppose you should have thought of that before you decided to defy me," Snape said shortly.

Feeling his face turn even redder, Harry chanced a quick glance up, wondering if he should apologize.

But Snape's lips were tight, his eyes focused straight ahead.

Chastised, Harry let himself pulled up again; he planted his feet firmly this time and willed his knees to stop sagging like noodles.

"Landing by Floo will be less jarring than by Apparation, but you may feel just as ill either way.

_Can't be worse than now_, Harry thought.

"We'll use the back entrance of the Apothecary…"

"But—" Harry began, suddenly remembering, "—Professor Lupin's still in the bookshop."

Snape pinned him with an acid glare. "Your point?"

"It's just…I came with him," Harry mumbled, the hot prickle of his guilt radiating from his sore scalp to his toes. "Shouldn't I let him know?"

Snape let out a disgusted sniff, his lip curling ever so slightly, his nostrils flaring. "I'm certain a note will suffice."

-----

Snape wasn't even remotely truthful about the process of Flooing. Harry didn't just feel ill; he felt wretched—so much so that he had vomited his lunch onto the dungeon floor. A quick spell from Snape had cleaned both the stone floor and his jeans, but Harry had never felt more humiliated than he did at that moment. The last time he'd thrown up in public, or at all for that matter, he had been seven years old and in primary school. He'd ruined his maths homework and could vaguely remember the tears on his face.

At least he hadn't cried this time—Snape had even told him, rather curtly, that if it hadn't been for the Dementor, he probably wouldn't have sicked up at all. For the first time Harry could remember, he longed for his invisibility cloak for the simplest of reasons: to disappear.

He sat now on a lab table in Snape's classroom, his legs dangling off the edge, holding a warm mug of thick hot chocolate. An old green blanket sat folded and untouched next to him. Snape hadn't scolded him for ignoring it, so Harry left it where it was. The professor hadn't spoken a word since they had Floo'd back from Diagon Alley—had barely glanced at Harry after setting him on a nearby desk and conjuring a steaming drink.

Meanwhile, Harry stared down into his cup, filling his head with thoughts of Quidditch—the Halloween feast—Mrs. Weasley's Christmas mince pies…anything to block out the memory of the withered inhuman lips threatening to latch onto his face. The cold. The shrill screaming. The smell of rotting skin.

"Harry."

At the sound of his name, Harry lifted his eyes. The feather of Snape's quill trembled as he finished his final sentence and tapped a forceful period at the end. He spared Harry a fleeting glance and the barest of nods. "Drink what I've given you."

He bent his head back over the note he had just scrawled, his face stony, almost disinterested as he scanned the words; he let the two curled ends roll together into a double-scroll.

Harry tilted his mug a bit, the warm, sweet liquid following. He didn't want it. Even warm milk seemed too considerate at this point. He didn't have to study Snape past a flicker of a glance to tell that the man was beyond cross. And Lupin was probably still in the bookshop, thinking that Harry had disobeyed him as well. If that weren't enough, Harry he was still cold and sweaty and achy—

"_Harry_."

Recognizing the tone, Harry lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. Almost immediately, warmth spread through his stomach all the way to his fingertips. The comforting sensation was so unexpected that Harry's skin broke out in gooseflesh. Some hot cocoa, that. He looked up at Snape again. The scroll was gone, and Snape had risen out of his desk chair.

Harry rested his mug on his thigh, drawing in a breath and holding it. This was it. He nibbled a tiny raw place on the inside of his lip as he waited for his professor to lock eyes…and essentially burn him alive.

But Snape only dropped his quill back into its holder before rounding the corner of his desk and making his way to the nearest cabinet; he threw open the door and began rummaging inside.

This wasn't it.

Harry stared at Snape's back, already feeling slightly less fuzzy-headed and a great deal warmer, though now, he found himself irritated. Something about the sound of bottles clinking together—carelessly scraping against the wood as Snape searched—made Harry's heartbeat pick up. He felt his eyebrows pinch.

He gripped the porcelain handle, his fingers sticking to a dried splash of cocoa—a drink that should have been served up by a rosy-cheeked granddad in bedroom slippers, not his stormy-eyed professor giving him the almost-silent treatment.

The longer Harry thought about the contrast, the harder his teeth clenched. It didn't make sense. He set his cup down next to him.

The door to the small cupboard snapped closed; Snape frowned when he noticed the abandoned cup. "Simple instructions fail to agree with you, Mr. Potter?" he snapped in that deep, brittle tone that Harry hated. "Perhaps I should write you a manual…"

Harry's face burned round the sides as he watched Snape move forward, unscrewing the lid to a jar of salve and tossing it onto the table. Scooping out a clear blob on his fingertip, Snape avoided Harry's eyes as he reached around to the back of the boy's head.

But before Snape could touch him, Harry leaned away, scowling.

Snape's hand hovered in midair; he pinned Harry with a peculiar stare. The slight surprise quickly dissolved into a glower. He reached over once more.

Harry hunched his shoulder close to his ear.

"Fine," Snape snapped, dropping the jar with a clatter onto the tabletop. He wiped the salve on his robes as he spared Harry one last icy glare. "Act like a child." Fabric whipped around his ankles as he turned back towards his desk.

Harry's cheeks prickled with fire. His hand clenched around the opened jar of salve—for only a second. He released it, his fingers finding the lid instead.

With impressive speed, it flew past Snape's head and clacked against the cabinet.

Snape jerked back around, his black eyes zoning in on the lid that now lay on the dungeon floor; Harry clutched the edge of the table with both hands, but they refused to propel him forward. He was stuck.

Even Harry's insides must have been shocked senseless, as he felt nothing but a numb tingling in his stomach as the man stalked toward him again.

In an instant, Snape had Harry's shoulders in a firm grip. They faced each other now, almost chin-to-chin. Snape was breathing heavily through his nostrils—loud enough for Harry to hear.

"You, Mr. Potter, are treading on unthinkably thin ice," Snape hissed. "And once again, your foolish nerve has caused more trouble than necessary. How _dare_ you show me such disrespect— look at me_ now_." He gave the thin shoulders a shake.

"No!" Harry declared. "This isn't even my fault!"

"No? I suppose you must have been Obliviated," Snape spat sardonically. Another jostle. "What has gotten _into_ you?"

Harry glared, his teeth pressing together more tightly. "Nothing's gotten into me. What about you?" He pulled against Snape's grasp. "You never tell me _anything_ anymore—and you lied about the Dementors being in Ireland…"

Snape frowned in confusion. "I did nothing of the sort—"

"They can't even come around people; they're only supposed to be round the coast," Harry cried. "You just said that to keep me here!"

"Stop blathering nonsense, Potter." The black eyes narrowed dangerously. "And you will _mind_ _your_ _tongue_."

"Mind yours, then!" Harry's glasses flashed in the dungeon candlelight as he, once again, tried to jerk his arms free. "And quit lying."

"That is _enough_!" Snape growled, reclaiming his grip. They were eye-to-eye now.

With his arms pinned to his sides, all Harry could do was study the hook of Snape's nose down to his flared nostrils. He tried to swallow.

"If you don't want me to stay here, then just say it!" His own voice sounded high and strange.

It felt to Harry as though they remained that way for several long minutes, Snape's fingers frozen around Harry's biceps, his jaw pulsing.

The whole room became delicate and still—like a motionless pool of water that could be disturbed with the tiniest movement.

Snape stared at him, a wrinkle forming above his nose.

A lump stuck in Harry's throat; his eyes locked on a smudge on his jeans.

More stillness. Not even a ripple.

"I can go stay with Ron."

A long pause. Snape cleared his throat softly. "The Weasleys are in Egypt." He didn't sound like himself either.

"Hermione, then," Harry mumbled in a croaky voice. He rubbed at the light stain with his thumb.

A quiet rustle of robes; Snape's shoe squeaked. "France."

The silence returned, but only for a second. "You think I don't want you here."

Harry scratched absently at his jeans now; another failed swallow lodged on top of the first; his head began aching again.

"Do you think I would have given away my Portkey to just anyone?" Snape trailed off, exhaling deeply through his nose. "You know far better than that…"

Harry ducked his chin to his chest, waiting for his lungs to collapse. He tried to shake his head but couldn't. He gave a weak shrug instead.

Another sigh.

Harry curled his shoulders, trying very hard to focus on a threadbare patch on his jeans. Soon, however, it blurred together with the darker blue. He felt a hand squeeze the base of his neck.

"You are the only child I know who manages to encounter everything he should avoid…"

Sniffing deeply, Harry let his glasses slip a small ways down his nose, hoping the frames covered enough of his eyes. After a moment of strategic blinking, he swiped his nose with the back of his hand, and returned to clutching the edge of the table, his shoulders stiff. "I really didn't mean it this time."

"Mm," Snape grunted in a non-committal way. "Lead by an Imperius curse, were you?" Fingers suddenly parted the back of Harry's hair, smoothing something cold onto the bump raised on his scalp. The sting disappeared almost instantly.

"A what?" Harry sniffed again and tried to peek up, but the heel of Snape's hand kept his neck bent.

"Don't," Snape muttered. "You have an abrasion; you need two applications."

The salve felt as cool as tap water—and slimy—but Harry held still. "You said I wasn't bleeding," he mumbled to his own chest.

"And you said you wouldn't vomit…" Another cold fingertipful.

"I never said—hey, that's _three_ applica—"

"Head. Down."

Pressing his lips together, Harry sat as still as a sculpture, and quiet as one, while Snape finished up. He remained silent as he watched Snape recap the jar as he sauntered over to the cabinet. And then he felt it…

"Keep your hands away." Snape's eyes slanted peripherally as replaced the salve. "It takes a minute to dry."

Hand hovering like a claw over his scalp, Harry pulled a face. "It really itches…"

"I know." The cabinet door snapped shut. "Give it a moment—the cut is healing."

Harry folded his hands together and jammed them between his knees, biting his lip hard in attempt to ignore the mad itching sensation. Snape nodded briefly toward Harry's cup of chocolate. "Finish that while you wait." He stood, shaking up a tiny vial full of blue-black liquid.

Desperate for a distraction, Harry lifted his mug and drank the lukewarm beverage, eyeing Snape warily over the rim. He would _not_ take any more potions.

Another pleasant wave of warmth spread through Harry's stomach and rippled outward. The itch on his head faded to a tingle. He glanced into his cup—what had Snape put in it?

"You do realize…" At the sound of Snape's voice, Harry lifted his gaze. "…the amount of trouble you could have avoided today, had you only done as you were told?" Snape studied the blue-stained cork in the lamplight before pouring the dense liquid into the small urn next to his quills.

Harry lowered his chin again, thumbing the handle of his mug. He wanted to argue—even thought back to his earlier logic about all of it being Professor Lupin's bright idea—but Harry found he could only nod. He'd realized his mistake right after he'd taken his last bite of treacle tart pudding; his stomach had, anyway.

"Mm," Snape seemed to agree. Harry felt his professor's presence looming nearer; he took another sip of his drink and tried his best to swallow it—the warmth from the chocolate hardly soothed him this time. "Yes?"

He got an eyeful of Snape's robes, afraid to look up any further. "Yes, sir," Harry mumbled, hating, more than anything, the feeling of knowing he was in for it.

"You could have been injured," Snape continued in the same blunt tone. "More seriously than you can fathom…"

Snape's vest had square buttons, Harry noticed—dull, black buttons.

"Do you hear me?"

He bobbed his head tiniest bit. If only Snape would whack him and get it over with—anything but this. Harry blinked his eyes, zeroing in on the tiny, zig-zagging threads running down the edge of Snape's collar now—until a knuckle tipped up his chin. Abashed, Harry met Snape's cool, black stare only as much as he must.

"But how was I supposed to know there'd be a Dementor in London?" Harry asked, mustering up every spare ounce of genuine inquisitiveness. "I mean, you said they were in Ireland—"

"What I _said_, young man," Snape replied curtly, releasing Harry's chin but holding his eyes, "was that you were to remain in the castle…_regardless_—" He raised his voice, cutting short Harry's response. "—if you were told otherwise."

"I know, but—"

"No." Snape shook his head. "We had an agreement."

Harry closed his mouth slowly, startled by the unfamiliar label. He blinked up at his professor; his insides shrinking. He had no idea what to say to that; all Harry knew at that moment was how abysmally young he felt.

His eyes found the square buttons again, but he didn't really see them.

"Professor Dumbledore is far too trusting." It was a quiet statement, but the bitterness had crept through.

Harry looked up carefully; Snape seemed to be staring past his face. "Of who?"

Sniffing in disdain, Snape gave an almost feeble shake of his head before refocusing his attention, the sternness seeping back. A wooden expression.

Harry didn't need him to answer.

"This is the very last time I will say this to you," Snape said quietly, "and I expect you to listen once and for all. Do you understand?"

Harry's stomach shriveled into a fig. "Yes, sir," he muttered.

"Very well. Eyes up."

Miserably obeying, Harry anticipated the axe of fate.

"Just as I have done this past year—and…" A slight curl of the lip, "…as others have failed to…" Snape continued, "I have placed you on restriction for your own safety."

Harry felt his eyes grow dull with shame. He couldn't look Snape in the face anymore, but it hardly mattered. The lecture was enough.

"Like it or not," Snape pressed on, just as firmly, "it is not—nor will it ever be—your place to question my judgment when it involves your well-being."

Something about the statement gave Harry the courage to turn his head. Snape was looking at him more seriously than ever before. "And we are at that point. Do you hear me?"

Harry stared at him; he tried to nod.

"I know what you have been through, Harry," Snape said slowly. "And you have every reason to hesitate when the time comes for you to trust an adult."

A brief silence.

"But it will never be so with me." Snape's chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. "Never. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry felt his gaze drop a bit, uncertain of what he was feeling. The walls of his throat began to swell faster than ever.

Finally, he nodded. Twice.

Snape mirrored him. And then he leaned down, taking Harry's chin between his thumb and forefinger. For the second time that afternoon, they were eye-level. "That said, young man, if _ever_ I find you have disobeyed me so blatantly again, you will be over my knee for a spanking you won't soon forget."

The back of Harry's eyes stung, even when the lids slipped closed. And still, when he felt his forehead collide with Snape's middle.

The professor's arm lay draped across the knobby shoulder blades for a long time, as Harry soaked in the odd mix of contentment and mortification that made his heart feel like bursting, ignoring the water gathering into sliver half-moons near the rims of his glasses.

It was several minutes before either of them noticed Professor Lupin standing on the threshold of the opened classroom door, the thick, foil-wrapped slab of chocolate hanging limply from his loose grip.

TBC…

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Thanks for reviewing Chapter 10! Well, and reading Chapter 11 :-) Hope you enjoyed. And as always, thanks to Tabitha for being my beta!


	12. A Time to Yield

**Author's Note**: **No, your eyes are not deceiving you. It's me. Hope you enjoy this one. I've missed writing like you can't even believe.**

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**Chapter 12: A Time to Yield**

Harry was the first to zero in on the slump-shouldered intruder. Snape's eyes followed his to the door. Harry ducked his chin, his face burning as he wondered how much of that conversation had been overhead. He swiped his nose with the back of his wrist.

Professor Lupin straightened up the slightest bit, drawing in air through his nostrils at being discovered. The foil-wrapped chocolate bar slipped out of his fingers and clattered to the ground. He hurriedly stooped to pick it up, somehow dropping it again before finally snagging a hold of it.

Harry flicked his gaze up at Snape, sensing fire in the black eyes that were obstructed through his curtain of matching hair.

A soft clearing of a throat. "I've only just got your note a few moments ago," Lupin spoke carefully. "I came as soon as I could."

Snape didn't move. Didn't breathe.

"Harry, how…" Lupin coughed again. "How did you—"

"Go to your dormitory."

Harry blinked, surprised at the sudden address. Especially since Snape wasn't even looking at him.

Professor Lupin's eyes, soft yet nervous, flickered between them.

"Why?" Harry piped up, managing to alternate between frowning at the back of Snape's head and eyeballing Lupin in a questioning way—that is, until Snape whipped around, stealing Harry's undivided attention.

The glare he received was enough to knock him flat on the table. Harry dipped his chin again.

"It was my fault, Severus," Professor Lupin offered in haste. The wrapper crinkled loudly in the echoing silence of the dungeon. "Had I known beforehand that Dementors had been ordered to Diagon Alley, I never would have—I mean, I certainly would have considered—"

"You considered nothing, as usual," Snape sneered in response, still eyeing Harry sharply. "Your dormitory," he repeated quietly, raising his brow with resolution. "Now."

Slowly, Harry slid to the edge of the table, his arms and legs still rather shaky, his skin still moist with perspiration.

Professor Lupin stepped forward. "Here, I've brought this." He held on to his bar of chocolate with both hands as if preparing to offer it. "He should have some…"

"He has."

Harry felt inches tall, as though he had shrunk with the discomfort, stuck in the middle of this. His stomach tightened with guilt, seeing as he was the cause, too.

Once again, the chocolate hung by Lupin's thigh, precarious in his weak grip.

Snape gave a quick jerk of his head toward the exit, his gaze still cool as marble, still pinned on Harry. He wouldn't be repeating himself again; that was for certain. Tampering with Snape's temper would be radioactive…

But Harry still had to try.

He shook his head, speaking in a muffled voice, "But it wasn't his fault, Professor; it was mine."

Ice crackled in Snape's stare.

"You…" Harry swallowed. "You even said—"

"I've given you an order," Snape muttered, for only Harry to hear. "Defying me now after our discussion would be unwise. Go."

"But—" Harry wetted his lips, searching for the words to make Snape understand. "But it wasn't—"

Hearing no more, Snape lifted Harry under the armpits and deposited him on his feet, cutting off his lame attempt at an explanation.

Red-faced, Harry set his jaw but allowed himself be prodded toward the door.

Lupin held out the chocolate as they passed, looking rather embarrassed himself. Harry reached out to take it, but Snape snatched it out of Lupin's hand first, handing it to Harry before placing both hands on his shoulders and steering him through the exit like he always did.

This time, though, Harry did pull away; he strode up the ramped corridor without so much as a glance back. It was one thing to look like a baby in front of Snape, but in front of another teacher—

"Hey!" Something cinched Harry around the waist, dragging him back. His trainers squeaked against the floor until he bumped into a solid mass of…

Oh, bugger.

A hand caught Harry's chin, and then he found himself gazing up into the darkness of Snape's upside-down nostrils.

"A bit early in the afternoon for dramatics." The too-big nostrils flared even more.

"I…I was going," Harry said nimbly.

"Yes," Snape affirmed. "You will. And you'll do it without fuss, will you not?"

It is rather difficult to pull any other face than a bug-eyed one when someone has your chin in a vice. But Harry found himself trying anyway.

"You're always sending me away…"

"I'm sending you to rest," Snape corrected, still holding fast to Harry's chin. "Most boys your age would be in the mental ward at St. Mungo's after an encounter with a Dementor."

Harry frowned. "Where's that?"

"Go." Snape released Harry's chin as he gestured vaguely down the corridor.

"It really wasn't his fault—I told him you wouldn't mind."

Snape stared at him.

"He said I should ask for your permission."

Snape remained frozen, but somehow, his eyes seemed to grow dark. Strange, almost. He swallowed. "To bed with you."

Harry chewed on his lip.

A single, authoritative nod. "Go on."

Snape waited until Harry started moving before sweeping his robes around and stalking back towards the classroom.

Rounding the corner, Harry mumbled the password and stepped inside the Common Room. He fell into a leather armchair in front of the cold fireplace, slouching down as far as he could without sliding off the cushion. Pondering the general unfairness of everything, he fingered the softening bar of chocolate and then tossed it onto the nearest table.

It was funny. Less than ten minutes ago, he was silently scorning Professor Lupin for suggesting they go to Diagon Alley, and now, Harry was feeling sorry for him. His eyes, like Snape's, were difficult to look at today. But in a different way.

Then there was Snape.

One minute he considered Harry mature enough to learn about Dementors and Sirius Black, and the next, Snape was shoving him out of a conversation that most certainly was going to involve him.

Harry's skin prickled with gooseflesh; he forced his mind to stray from that memory, from the cold, damp nausea that had engulfed him. Snape had been right—they were horribly foul creatures. Turns out, Snape was right about loads of things. Why did it always take hours for Harry to realize this?

He chewed on his lip in thought. The longer he sat, the more he realized how much he was at fault. If only he had stayed in the book shop with Professor Lupin…

_If only you'd waited for Snape._

Harry made a face. If only Snape had taken him along to Ireland…

And then, somewhere in the deep recesses of his conscience: _if only you had listened better, maybe he'd've taken you_.

Toeing the end of the low, gleaming black table in front of him with his trainer, Harry waited until the renewed heat in his cheeks diminished to pinpricks of lingering shame.

There was only one thing to do.

Harry pushed himself out of the armchair, giving himself a brief moment to rehearse his plea for Lupin's clemency as he gazed at the charred logs that lay in the hearth. But his mind was rather blank, and now, in the near-silence, he was having a difficult time shrugging off thoughts of the choking cold. The smell of rotting skin.

Scratching his fingernails through his hair, Harry let his eyes travel wearily around the room as he mused, pondering the degree of punishment he'd have to endure for leaving the dormitory, until he spotted an open book, lying patiently on his corner desk. The desk where his breakfast and lunch were always waiting on him.

The desk that Snape always transfigured into a dinner table around half-past five, large enough for two plates. Every day. For the first time in a while, Harry hadn't even questioned such expectancy. It felt nice.

It felt normal.

Dropping his hand to his side, Harry cast a fleeting glance toward the door that led to the Dungeon corridor. He walked slowly over to his desk and gazed down at the book: _Wednesday, July 28_. The slots from noon downward remained blank.

Harry pressed his lips together. Snape wasn't interested in his explanations this afternoon—that much was obvious. As much as he hated to admit it, Harry had done all he could do, aside from storming back into the classroom and getting inevitably clobbered in the end.

Sighing, he picked up his quill.

Several minutes later, having exchanged his jeans for pajama bottoms, Harry lay buried under the warmth of his comforter, his glasses folded on the night table, waiting for sleep to overtake him; sleep that floated over him like fog.

Snape must have added the Draught of Peace to his cup of chocolate; either that or or throwing up on Snape's shoes must have knackered Harry out more than he realized. Pleasant, senseless images drifted through Harry's mind. Feathers floating in Professor Flitwick's classroom. Hermione's front teeth. A great black dog scratching its ear. Snape reading a novel in the lamplight.

Harry breathed evenly.

Snape wasn't going to kill Lupin. Dumbledore would kill _Snape_ if that happened, and then where would that leave Harry?

No, Snape would be sitting in his chair by the fire when Harry woke up, just like the book would be there, open to the correct page, with Harry's penned message in the correct timeslot:

**_Potter, Harry_**

**_3:03 p.m. - ?_**

**_Dormitory_**

**_P.S. Wake me up before dinner._**

It felt nice to know that Snape would.

* * *

Remus cleared his throat for the third time. "I had no idea of the lengths the Ministry would go to…Diagon Alley is a populated area…"

The coldness in Severus' eyes accompanied his sneer with familiar ease.

Remus removed his hands from his pockets and smoothed down the front of his robes. Shifting among the silence, he crossed his arms over his chest and then let them fall. He cleared his throat a fourth time. "Where did you find him?"

Not even a twitch of a lip.

"Severus," Remus began quietly, his eyes trained on the floor, "Albus consented after I'd sent him word—"

"Of course he did." Severus narrowed his gaze. "I would expect nothing less from the two great conspirers—clever, as you believe you are…and were."

A startled pause. Strands of graying hair fell over Lupin's brow as he lifted his head. "This wasn't a conspiracy in the least."

"But it is so very like you, isn't it, Lupin?" Severus continued, his voice soft and smirking. "To escape at the slightest whim, leaving everyone suspicious. Tell me, do you still find the castle a bit too domesticated for your liking?

"Severus…"

"Thought Potter's boy would follow you around like the rest of them?"

"Of course not," Lupin said quietly. "That was nearly two decades ago, Severus, we were only children then—"

"Weren't we all." The strange gleam returned to Severus' black stare, and then he flicked his eyes away.

Lupin wetted his lips in the awkward silence. He cleared his throat again. "I never would have taken Harry off the grounds had I known he was to remain here. It's not my place."

"Neither…" Severus said slowly, "…is this school, Lupin. I trust you don't need me to remind you of that."

Orange shadows twitched on the wall, the oily wicks crackling in the flames.

Lupin blinked several times, rubbed a spot on his forehead with a knuckle; he pushed back his fringe only to let it fall into his eyes. He glanced at Severus, receiving nothing in return, and then nodded once, a jerk of his chin. "Sorry," Lupin muttered, almost to himself. Tucking his hands into the deep pockets of his washed-out robes, Remus Lupin turned and walked out of the Potions classroom.

It was several minutes before Severus returned to his quarters. When he did, he found himself gazing vaguely into the rekindled fireplace, fingering the end of his wand without really feeling it. The foil wrapping of the uneaten chocolate glittered in the dull light from the small afternoon fire.

Removing his outer robes, Severus laid the garment over his desk. As he lit the few lanterns that were mounted on the wall, he spotted Harry's book, open, for once, to the correct page. Severus glanced down at the still-drying ink. He ran his thumb over the letters, accidentally smudging the fine print.

Dinner, indeed. Severus rolled his eyes, the hint of a smile on his lips. He had been almost positive he would find the boy slumped over on the sofa, having intended to wait up for him, refusing to rest.

Wonders never cease.

The two drops of the Draught of Peace that Severus had slipped into Harry's cocoa would have him sleeping for four hours at least.

Tiny new flames sparked to life on the warming logs as Severus sat down at Harry's desk. The tabletop was too low—the chair too high. Potter-sized.

The boy was too small for his age; surprisingly unlike his father, who had been one of the tallest in their year.

Allowing one long sigh to escape, Severus pressed two fingers to his temple and stared, thinking. If only he wouldn't think.

If only he couldn't.

Severus remained that way for a while, his legs wedged beneath Harry's desk, until the clock chimed the new hour.

* * *

"You were supposed to wake me."

"I did."

Harry frowned, squinting sleepily behind smudged spectacles. "No, you didn't…"

_Splat_.

Harry flinched as Snape dropped a heavy stack of volumes on top of the pile already on the floor. He was kneeling, almost squatting, in the middle of the rug, sorting through mountains of drab-colored books—the dull gold bindings nearly matched the color of the pages.

It was a bizarre sight, Snape crouched on the floor, as he usually towered several heads above Harry.

Suddenly Snape glanced up, tossing his hair back. "You are correct," Snape said, stone-faced. "I'm lying to you." He bent back to his work.

Harry stood there, his stomach pressed against the back of the sofa, waiting for the cobwebs to clear from his head. He felt as if he could have slept all night. "What was for dinner?"

Snape paused again; this time, though, he eyed Harry as though he had pink hair and feathers. "It's seven o'clock."

Harry shrugged. "So?"

"So," Snape replied, tossing an ugly green volume in a pile of books that looked as though they'd grown mold, "I highly doubt waiting on dinner would have left me famished."

Rounding the arm of the sofa, Harry scratched at his scar and plopped down on one of the leather cushions. Perhaps that meant Snape had waited for him. Harry was still too groggy to decipher his professor's obliqueness.

"Well?"

Harry was still scratching. "Well, what?"

Snape sighed. His hair hung in his face, as it always did when he was absorbed in something, but Harry could almost sense the sour, hook-nosed expression. "Are you hungry?" Snape asked slowly—more slowly than necessary.

"Er…" Another shrug. "I guess."

Snape snapped his fingers and pointed towards the table.

As Harry moved to sit in his usual chair, he spotted his schedule book, still open. The blank spaces from this afternoon glared at him, admonished him, Professor McGonagall style: stiff and silent.

Harry scooted sideways into his seat and closed the book.

Brushing his hands together, Snape stood, still eyeing the volumes he hadn't yet touched.

"Professor?"

"Mm."

Harry licked his lips, pushed against the binding with his thumb, sliding his book towards the corner of the table. _What did you say to Professor Lupin_? Harry wanted to ask. Instead, he opted for picking at a loosening thread stitched into the crevice; he chose the safer question. For now.

"What are you looking for?"

Snape didn't respond right away. He was still glowering down at the mess he'd created.

Harry was just getting ready to ask again, when Snape grumbled under his breath, straightening up regally, giving each cuff of his shirt a crisp tug. "A book."

Leaning his shoulders and head against the nearby wall, Harry almost rolled his eyes. "I could've guessed that. Which book?"

"A book," Snape said silkily, raising a single brow as he stepped over a small, multicolored hill, "that is not here. Obviously. Sit properly."

Harry did.

Snape reached down and tugged Harry's chair out from the wall. He repeated the process with the small table and his own chair. Settling across from Harry, Snape used his wand to silently levitate the book onto one of the shelves across the room. And then he tapped the middle of the table twice.

A large portion of shepherd's pie appeared on Harry's plate, steaming up his glasses.

"Carrots _and _peas," Harry noted the cooked vegetables interspersed among the beef, before taking three large gulps of his milk.

Snape pursed his lips. "Shall I request a third?"

Harry swallowed, breathing heavily from the long sips. "If you want," he said with a shrug. "I've always liked vegetables."

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Snape studied him. "Hm," he murmured.

Harry took another long drag of his milk. Snape must have thought he was sucking up, since, technically, he wasn't entirely off the hook from this afternoon. Harry had barely been handed a punishment, after all.

"I'm serious," Harry promised, smiling a little—the first smile he hadn't had to force all day.

Snape raised his eyebrows in vague acknowledgement and took a bite of his dinner.

Harry speared a carrot, eating half of it as he watched his professor. Now was as good a time as any. "What did Professor Lupin say?"

Swallowing a mouthful of ice water, Snape took his time crumpling his napkin into his fist. "That," he said, forking up more pie, "is not your concern."

"Why not?"

Another swallow. "You were not there."

Harry bit the rest of his carrot off his fork, chewing rather unenthusiastically. "I could have been. You made me leave."

"Harry."

Snape waited until he had Harry's full attention—eye-contact and all; he held Harry's eyes with his own, a squirm-worthy stare. "The matter is closed. Not another word about it."

Unbidden, Harry dropped his gaze.

"Is that clear?"

Harry stuck his fork into his potatoes. He nodded.

Clinks of forks against plates were the only sounds in the room for a long moment.

"One question," Harry said quietly, swallowing his mouthful, "and then I won't say anything else…."

A pause. Snape lowered his fork.

Harry took that as permission to speak. But suddenly, he found his face warming. He sank the side of his fork into his shepherd's pie. "Is he angry with me?"

Still, for a while, Snape said nothing—only sighed through his nose. "Of course not."

Harry peeked up a bit. Snape had resumed eating.

"That would make him more of a fool than I suspected."

Twisting his own fork, Harry gave Snape a half-smile that he couldn't see. "Thanks for trying to wake me."

Snape waved away the gratitude as he sipped his water. He nodded towards Harry's plate. "Finish your meal."

Harry scooped up a forkful.

"The vegetables you so adore…"

Chewing, Harry smiled all the way this time, careful to keep his mouth closed.

Yes, it was definitely good to be normal.

* * *

True to his word, Snape didn't speak of Professor Lupin or Dementors or anything that had gone on in Diagon Alley for the rest of the evening, which meant he also hadn't spoken of any consequences where Harry was concerned. So for the good of self-preservation, Harry kept his questions to himself.

Snape had resumed his book rifling after dinner. This time, however, Harry joined him, sitting cross-legged on the rug as he flipped through the heavy, musty volumes that smelt of dust and made his nose run.

"Why don't we make these potions in our class?" Harry wondered while perusing instructions for concocting liquid luck.

Leaning over to see what Harry had found, Snape grunted distractedly. "You will."

"When?"

"When you reach N.E.W.T. level in Potions."

Harry thumbed through a few more pages that detailed complicated instructions for wicked-sounding potions. "Is that seventh year?"

"Mm," Snape affirmed.

Harry paused. "You think I'll pass through that far?"

"Perhaps…"

Thinking about this, Harry declared, "I've got better marks than first year."

"You began reading your text—"

"You made me."

"—and you refrained from gabbing with your knot-headed friend."

"You threatened to glue my lips together…"

Snape smirked. "Your point?"

Shrugging, Harry resumed flipping pages until he hit the index. "Don't have one, really."

"You rarely do…"

Harry ignored this; he tossed _The Guide to Exceptional Potion-Making_ onto the closest pile. "Can I help?"

"No," Snape said, and then noticing Harry's slightly crestfallen expression, he amended, "what I'm looking for is not here."

"Oh. Did you try Summoning it?"

Pushing a strand of hair out of his face, Snape gave Harry a look that was solely his. "I tend to search regardless."

That was certainly easy to believe. Snape was thorough in everything he did.

Harry pushed himself up from the ground and moved to the sofa.

Snape followed shortly after, replacing all books in their proper spots with a lazy wave of his wand.

"Potter?"

Harry recognized the sober tone as Snape's way of prompting an important request. Sitting cross-legged on his cushion, he gazed up at his professor. "Yes, sir?"

Lowering himself onto the far side of the sofa, Snape rested both palms on his knees. A line formed between his brows as he looked at Harry. "Are you aware of what happens when one is confronted by a Dementor?"

Harry frowned. "I thought we weren't talking about this…"

"I made the rule, I suppose I can bend it," Snape said smoothly. "Are you aware?" he repeated.

Harry felt the beginnings of a healthy blush rise from his neck to his cheeks. He had been rather content playing this game—the game where everything foul was forgotten; he'd been an expert at playing such games at the Dursleys. "Well, yeah," Harry mumbled, staring at his feet. "I guess you pass out…"

"No," Snape said, shaking his head; he squeezed his chin in thought. "You do not. Not usually."

"Oh." Harry's face felt as though it had been scalded. "Was I awake, then?"

Again, Snape shook his head. "You were out cold for a few seconds. You stirred when I woke you, though you'd spoken a bit in your delusion."

This was getting worse and worse. Harry didn't know what to say. After all, he'd just been informed that he was the weakest tosser on the planet. A tosser who talked in his sleep…

"What did you hear, Potter?"

Harry drew his knees up, poking at the cushion with his big toe. "What did I say?" he muttered, still embarrassed.

"Stop."

"I'm not doing anything…"

"No." Snape closed his eyes briefly. "You said 'stop'."

"I did?"

Snape nodded. "What did you hear?"

A pause. "Screaming."

Snape's Adam's Apple bobbed in his throat. "Whose?"

Harry shrugged.

"You don't know?"

"Look," Harry said, rather chafed over the whole subject, "I already know I'm weak when it comes to Dementors, so why do we have to—"

"It isn't weakness that causes such a reaction, Potter," Snape cut in; he was leaning forward now, his eyes intense. "Memories do. Horrid ones." He swallowed again. "Nightmares."

"But everyone has nightmares…"

"Not living ones."

Harry dipped his chin. "Ron has dreams where spiders are biting his feet. I doubt _he'd_ pass out."

"Some do."

"Like who?"

Snape stared at him for a long moment, his eyes glassed over a bit, as he seemed to be thinking of something. And then, abruptly, the black became as clear as night. "Was it your relatives you heard?"

"Like Uncle Vernon?"

"Mm."

Tilting his head, Harry drew his eyebrows together. "No," he said slowly. "It was a lady."

Snape pursed his lips. His eyes regained their glossy look, reflecting the weak flames licking out from between the logs in the fireplace.

"I couldn't really tell, though," Harry continued, "with all the barking. I think I just wanted the screaming to stop."

"Barking," Snape repeated, still gazing into the hearth.

"Yeah," Harry replied. "The same dog."

Snapping out of his momentary daze, Snape peered at Harry strangely. "What dog?"

Harry clenched his teeth against a yawn. "The one I told you about."

"It can't be the same one," Snape reasoned. "Diagon Alley is in London."

"It had the same eyes…"

Snape considered this, and then, clearing his throat, said, "I'll need to return to London tomorrow; I need to find what I've wasted hours searching for tonight."

"Diagon Alley?" Harry wondered.

"No."

"Knockturn Alley?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "You believe I would invite you along to Knockturn Alley?"

Harry's eyes grew wide. "I get to come with you?"

"There is no sense in leaving you here….obviously."

Harry wasn't sure whether to be offended or elated. So he chose the latter. "Where are we going, then?"

"You shall see. Tell me about this dog…"

TBC…

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**You will not be waiting another five months for an update; that was bad...very bad. Come to think of it, so is my job. Blame that. **

**Here's to hoping I still have some readers left! ;-)**


	13. Mine is Mine

**Author's Note**: **Holy feedback, Batman… You guys rule. Thanks for all of the comments for Chapter 12! I was really stunned (and humbled) that so many people have stuck around for this story. I'm really, really enjoying writing this sequel and knowing that you are enjoying reading makes it even more fun. Back to school in 13 days! Ahhh! Console me! This is an absurdly long author's note…so I will simply leave with you with a "Thanks, again!"**

**Oh, and enjoy!**

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**Chapter 13: Mine is Mine**

It was never until Harry walked beside another adult that he realized how short his legs really were. And Severus Snape was the swiftest stroller of them all.

They walked briskly down the wet cobblestone street, mostly side-by-side, Harry jogging every so often to keep up with Snape's long strides, leaping over potholes filled with muddy water, until Snape grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him away from the gutter to stand with him under the black umbrella that barely covered both of their heads.

Rain splattered on the rooftops and streets, soaking Harry's shoes and socks until his feet squelched with every step. His dark hair was plastered to his head, despite the shoddy umbrella's best efforts, and Harry's glasses were dotted with rain.

Keeping his hand at the base of Harry's neck, Snape turned down a narrow alleyway. Harry skidded in step beside him, but his specs were still spattered with a new wave of water that had trickled down Snape's umbrella, flying off spokes and into Harry's face. He blinked the rain out of his eyes.

Snape strolled.

They rounded the corner of a new street, this one filthier than the last. A rusted green lorry sped by, bouncing over the cobblestones, its windshield wipers squeaking.

"Where are we?" Harry asked, rather loudly, in order to be heard over the steady downpour.

Still moving quickly, Snape acknowledged Harry with the barest of sideways glances and then, without warning, his damp hair was whipping against his cheeks as he gripped Harry's shoulder, jerking him away from the street as another manky car wobbled by, spraying their feet with gray-brown water as it ploughed through a massive puddle.

The driver screamed obscenities out the window that Harry was positive would get his mouth scoured if he even dared think them.

Harry blinked up at Snape in shocked amusement, trying not to grin. This was certainly not Privet Drive.

"Come along," Snape said tersely, yanking Harry back under the umbrella. "We'll be out of the rain in a moment."

True to his word, Harry was soon being escorted up a crooked staircase, where grass was growing out of cracks in stone. As Snape fumbled with the key, Harry glanced over his shoulder, scoping out the street.

He caught sight of a row of brick houses the color of dried blood, their shutters covered in chipped gray paint, and a dirt-streaked red wagon before Snape pulled him into the house.

Harry's skin immediately pricked with gooseflesh, the way it had when Aunt Petunia sometimes yanked the warm covers off of Harry to wake him up while he was still half-ensconced in a dream. Beads of water trickled down his forehead toward the tip of his nose.

The house was too chilly for the end of July. Chilly and damp.

The whole town was.

Snape was fumbling around in the nearest room while Harry stood shivering in the dark foyer. He could hardly see a thing, except for the wooden coat rack standing near the front door. It held a single gray woolen coat.

The house smelled similar to Harry's old cupboard under the stairs, though a bit dustier, like old books.

"Come in here," Snape's voice drifted in from the next room. "Move carefully. It's dark."

Harry shuffled his feet along the carpet, rubbing his wet arms up and down. "Can't you turn a light on?" Judging by the automobiles and the fish and chips shop they'd passed while slogging through the streets, Harry knew they were in a Muggle town, an old one at that.

The creak of a drawer opening sounded from across the room. Snape's dark form moved calmly among the dimness. "Would we be standing here in the dark if I could?" he quipped dryly.

Harry ignored this and walked in a bit further. "Can't you just—" He stopped, squinting in the bright blue light that assaulted his pupils like a punch in the face. "Brilliant," Harry complained, blocking what he could with his hand.

Snape's unsmiling face was glowing in the harsh light that pulsed from his wand. He held a boxful of old newspapers.

"Now you can see to read those…" Harry said naughtily. His teeth wanted very much to chatter, but he settled for a stiff smile instead.

"Hand me that box of matches." Snape nodded at Harry's shoulder. Turning, Harry quickly found an ordinary cardboard box full of long matches, resting in an empty ashtray sitting on the table next to the sofa. He spied several candles, mutated with dripping wax, in their holders.

"I can light them for you, if you want," Harry suggested, gesturing toward the candle nubs.

"And burn my house down seconds later," Snape said. He tossed the box of newspapers onto a tatty-looking armchair and snapped his fingers. "Give me those."

"I've been lighting matches since I was seven," Harry easily argued. "I can light these candles for you in five seconds."

"…about as long as it will take me to light a fire on your miserable hide."

Harry sobered right up. He handed Snape the matches.

"Hold this tightly," Snape instructed, passing Harry his still-glowing wand, which he held with both hands. It was warm and made his palms tingle. "Don't move." Snape moved over to one of the candles. "At all," he added.

"Can I breathe?"

Snape struck a match. "No."

Harry rolled his eyes.

As soon as one candle was lit, Snape took back his wand, offering Harry a single distracted nod of gratitude. Extinguishing the false light, Snape pointed his wand toward the flame and muttered an unfamiliar spell.

Soft orange shadows flickered on the walls as tiny flames sprang to life at every available wick.

Then Snape turned his wand on Harry, drying his clothes, shoes, and hair with a single wave.

Harry's skin broke out in a fresh wave of goose bumps, but this time from the unexpected warmth of his now-comfy-and-dry clothes. "Thanks." Harry gave his professor a lopsided smile, but Snape had already directed his attention toward the fireplace.

Harry waited until Snape had tossed a small log into the hearth before moving over to stand next to him. "How often do you come here?" Harry wondered, wrinkling his nose as he peered up at the soot-colored dust that was nestled into the cracks of the crown molding near the ceiling.

"Why do you ask?" Snape arranged several wads of newspaper underneath the small log, sending a small pile of blackened grit onto the stone floor in front of the fireplace.

If Harry were to reveal his true feelings about this place, he might tell Snape that rubbish was too generous of an assessment (judging by the threadbare patches on the armchairs, the cobwebs stretching over the heavy cloth curtains, and the one lonely stick in the bin), but seeing as Snape had identified this hovel as his _property_, Harry settled for a shrug and a mumble.

"You don't know."

Ah, so Snape was in his _that_ mood: patience bordering on distraction. Bordering on apathy.

At least this was better than his preoccupied_, hair-dangling-into-green-potions_ mood… or better yet, his tight-mouthed, _aiming-a-flat-handed-swing-toward-Harry's backside-at-every-cheeky-remark_ mood.

This mood was passable.

Harry squatted down next to Snape, raising a pity-filled eyebrow at that poor skimpy log. "I was only wondering."

"Mm."

Another small amount of ash showered down onto the toe of Harry's trainer and the surrounding area. He pressed a perfect set of fingerprints into it.

"Are we in Scotland?" Harry piped up, swiping his hand clean on his jeans.

"Northern England," Snape supplied, flicking a disapproving eye in Harry's direction. "Get your hands out of the ash."

"They're out…"

Unimpressed, Snape took hold of Harry's elbow and pulled him back a bit, tightening his grip to keep Harry from falling back on his tailbone. Snape must have sensed the sour look on Harry's face. "Stay back while I cast a flame," he explained. "The paper burns quickly."

Harry rebalanced on his toes. "You can't just burn the log?"

"No."

"Is it too wet?"

A pause. "No…"

"Don't you have any kerosene?"

Snape turned his head to stare at him; he blinked slowly.

Harry chewed on the corner of his lip and pretended to study a cobweb on the bookshelf.

Apathy bordering on aggravation. Snape's mood was teetering. At least Harry had memorized the warning signs.

Almost.

"Is this where you grew up?" Harry ventured, watching as Snape cast a silent _Incendio _charmover and over, or at least Harry assumed this was the case, as they hadn't practiced this one in Flitwick's class yet—only read about it. But Snape didn't seem to be having much luck, as the small flame quickly ignited the paper and shriveled into scraggly strips of black before the log caught fire.

Snape sighed as the last ball of newspaper curled in on itself like a withering, blackened rose. "Occasionally," he muttered in response to Harry's question; he reached into the hearth pressed his palm against the cool log, checking for dampness.

Harry knuckle-nudged his glasses as he glanced up at Snape with a questioning squint. "How can you _occasionally_ grow up somewhere?"

Snape acted as though he hadn't heard this. Instead, he cast _Lumos_ once again as he stood.

Harry's fringe fluttered in the breeze from Snape's robe as his professor swept into the next room, surrounded by a large circle of blue light that illuminated the corridor walls. The sound of a door opening drifted into the parlor followed by scraping and shuffling—searching sounds. "Should I try?" Harry called into the next room.

No response.

Sitting back on his heels, Harry pulled out his own wand and tentatively mimicked the pattern of Snape's silent charm, directing it towards the fireplace. His concentration was so acute that he barely noticed the holly warming in his hand.

A door closed in the next room.

Harry clamped the tip of his tongue between his lips, leaning forward a bit. He flourished his wand again.

Flames shot out of the wood like water spraying from a hose, licking all sides of the hearth and rolling up into the chimney. The sudden rush of heat knocked Harry back onto his hip. His chest rose and fell as he stared wide-eyed as a tiny flame sparked to life, waving hello from the end of log.

In an instant, Harry was on his feet, courtesy of the strong grip on his arm.

Snape's jaw was pulsing. His potential aggravation had blossomed into boiling, bubbling rage. "Have you lost _all_ sense?"

"I…I didn't mean to do that." Harry's knees trembled with the abruptness of it all.

"You didn't mean to cast a very clear _Incendio_?"

"I did?"

Snape's nostrils quivered as he jerked the holly wand out of Harry's lose grip.

"I'm sorry," Harry said desperately, not liking the feeling of his wand in the hands of another. "I was just practicing the movement..."

"Yes…incessant practicing is a pastime of yours."

"I practice loads!"

"Clearly."

Harry grit his teeth, glaring at the stubble adorning Snape's chin. "May I have my wand back?"

"When we return to Hogwarts," Snape replied, releasing Harry's arm. "Don't ever let me catch you speaking an incantation without my permission again."

"I bloody well didn't speak this one, did I?"

Snape eyes darkened as he caught Harry's cheeks between his thumb and three fingers before he could move more than a step. Harry watched Snape's forehead wrinkle into his black brows. Snape cocked his head, just barely. He narrowed one eye.

The anger drained from Snape's face at the same slow speed Harry's stomach let itself back out—once he had realized Snape wasn't planning on pummeling him.

Harry pulled a rather sour face, still vexed over the loss of his personal property. "What?" Harry muttered. He wiggled his mouth back and forth until Snape released him

The man continued to gaze down at Harry with his quizzical cat-eye. "You flourished your wand without speaking the incantation."

"I didn't want to get it wrong," Harry explained, pinning his professor with a squinty eye of his own as he scratched his fingernails over his cheek. "I told you I was only practicing—I didn't actually think it'd work; we haven't learned it yet."

"I didn't cast _Incendio_."

Harry flicked his eyes toward the orange and black log, now crackling with a healthy flame, and back to Snape. "Yes, you did…"

"I used a form of it," Snape said. "A much weaker spell." His eyes slanted further. He twisted Harry's wand in his fingers.

"What?" Harry demanded again, feeling more disagreeable by the second. "Am I in trouble or not?"

"Keep up the cheek and you'll find out…"

Harry blinked steadily, keeping his eyes on Snape's face as he attempted to put a lid on his rising temper.

"Have you performed other charms silently this past year?"

Harry was beginning to feel like a freak. "Hermione sometimes can…"

Snape pursed his lips. "I care very little about Miss Granger's shining attributes. I'm asking about you."

"Only once," Harry mumbled. "You nearly killed me the last time I did." He lowered his eyes in shame as the thought back to the time he had accidentally exploded the top of a column while running after Draco Malfoy. Shining attribute, indeed. Snape hadn't exactly given him an accolade.

"Yes," Snape said dryly, "and if it hadn't been for the headmaster's intrusion, I might have finished the job." He gave Harry's wand a decisive twist. And then, against all odds, he held it out, the handle less than a centimeter from Harry's nose.

Harry smiled, reached for it.

Snape flicked it away from Harry's fingertips, holding it between them, straight as a pin. His cat-eye reappeared. "You use discretion when casting spells—always—practicing or otherwise."

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed. If only he could push back the dopey smile that spread across his face, especially when Snape was being so serious.

"Mm," Snape murmured vaguely. Studying him another minute, he allowed Harry to take his wand. "Put it away and follow me." He spun on his heel, casting a light as he moved toward the corridor.

* * *

"Ow…" Harry grabbed two fistfuls of his hair and crouched into an immediate squat. He had smacked his head—hard—on a beam that must have appeared out of thin air.

"Potter…" Snape grumbled under his breath. The attic floor creaked loudly with his brisk steps. "I told you to keep your head down."

Blue light and black hair flooded Harry's vision—what little he had left after such a knock on the head.

"I didn't see that one," Harry said stupidly, massaging the sore spot on his scalp where a small bump was forming. "Sorry."

Snape's fingertips joined Harry's in rubbing out the sting, though his touch was a bit firmer. He hooked one side of Harry's drooping frames back over his ear. "Two head injuries in two days," Snape commented. "I believe you've breached some sort of record."

Bottom planted on the ground now, Harry sat with his knees up, wincing a bit as Snape smoothed his thumb over the evidence of Harry's clumsiness, again and again, until the pain lost its bite. Neither of them said anything. But if Harry _had_, he might have mentioned that a simple _Lumos_ of his own would have kept him from a concussion.

No such luck.

Several minutes later, Snape was digging through a cardboard box, so wilted it almost looked greasy; his wand, still ignited, lay on the floor. Harry's eyes had mostly adjusted to the dimness—all knot-nicked beams glared haughtily back at him, silently mocking his snitch-sized welt, or so it seemed.

Dusting off his seat, Harry stood slowly, hunching over until he found his own box to rifle through on the opposite side of the tiny attic. Snape appeared to be absorbed in the stack of books he was carefully skimming as he huddled like a marionette in the shadows.

"Tell me the title and I'll help you look," Harry said, yanking out an ugly, purple, fuzz-covered jumper from his box that made Mrs. Weasley's Christmas jumpers look stylish. He wrinkled his nose, holding it up for Snape to see. "Is this yours?"

Snape's gaze barely left the book. "Are you planning on wearing it home?"

A soft snort. "Right…"

"Then put it back."

Harry dove back into his box. "What's the title?" he asked again.

Snape pushed back the hair from his face. "Never mind," he said quietly. "This is the only box containing volumes."

"Oh," Harry replied. But he wasn't really listening anymore, as he'd found a large cedar box at the bottom of his carton. Snape's initials were clearly etched in the corner. Harry ran his fingernail over the letters, scraping away specks of dust. "Is this yours as well?"

A heavy book smacked against the three stacked into a pile. Snape wasn't listening.

Harry used the same fingernail to lift the metal latch. The inside of the box smelled like cedar. Harry immediately recognized the green and black rolled-up tie stuffed into the corner, though rather faded. Slytherin colors. He tried to picture Snape in a Hogwarts uniform and failed. In fact, he had a difficult time imagining Snape any younger than he was now.

Harry nudged his way past a plastic silver ring that was missing its stone, a pair of dusty beakers tied together with a piece of leather shoestring, and a small pile of coins—three bronze pennies and some shillings; nearly as much as Harry had kept hidden at the Dursleys in his own small chest beneath the broken floorboard—before reaching the book that lay at the bottom, almost fitting perfectly into the rectangular space.

Harry peered down at the title: _Practical Defense: Volume IV_. The book Snape had ordered him from Diagon Alley. Digging it out, Harry cracked open the volume with eager fingers; balancing the binding on the edge of the open box, he dragged his finger down the index, putting his face close to the page in order to see.

A few defensive spells had been underlined in ink with asterisks at both ends. His eyes zeroed in on _Incarcerous_. It had been double-underlined, by Snape presumably. Harry quickly thumbed to page 57.

The page was wrinkled with manual ink markings, much like any one of Harry's essays that Snape had murdered and left bleeding. Variations of the spell were penned in a list down margin—several were scribbled through. However, Harry could make out most:

_Incarcerous Omnis_.

_Morsus Incarceri_.

Harry drew in a quick breath at what he saw next. Another asterisk. A side note:

**For Potter and Black.**

The cedar box slid off his knee and clattered on the floorboards, sending a jolt through Harry's nerves. Had there been a beam above his head, surely Harry would have earned a third injury in two days.

A stray rolling coin bumped into the toe of Snape's boot and clinked to a halt.

Harry snapped the book closed.

Snape was staring at him, his face gaunt and white in the wand light. He picked up the coin and studied it.

Harry licked his lips. "Found a book," he said with a weak half-smile that felt more like a grimace.

Snape rose from the ground, subtle as the smog that curled out from the tall chimneys outside. The floor groaned with each step.

Harry immediately began tucking the fallen items back into the box. He managed to snap the lid closed right before Snape reached out and took it. Harry peeked up over his glasses; only Snape's nose was truly visible from that angle.

Snape crouched down next to the cardboard carton as slowly as he'd risen. Keeping his eyes on Harry, he replaced the cedar box, his lips pursed.

Harry got the message.

Snape held his hand out for the book. Harry curled his fingers around the binding.

Raising an eyebrow at Harry's hesitancy, Snape smirked. Almost. "Are you expecting me to beat you with it?"

Harry kept his face perfectly still. "How old are you?"

Snape was silent for a moment. He lifted his chin. "Thirty-four."

"Is that how old my dad would have been?"

Snape swallowed before he spoke. He nodded once. "You are aware of when we started Hogwarts."

Harry knew Snape and his father hadn't got on well, though Snape never talked about it. Anymore, at least…

Scraping his thumbnail over the silver letters etched onto the binding of Snape's old book, Harry sucked his lip through his teeth for a moment, and then he peeked up. "Did Sirius Black go to Hogwarts as well?"

Snape's blinking was the only sign of life in his stone face.

Harry tried not to appear as fluttery as he felt. It was only a question, after all. There had probably been a dozen students at Hogwarts with the last name of Black.

Swallowing once more, Snape tipped his chin.

"Did he?"

"I've just said so."

Harry's eyes found the book in his lap. _For Potter and Black_. A sudden thought made Harry's stomach cave. Why had Snape felt the need to defend himself?

"In what year?" Harry mumbled, scratching his thumb over the cover without feeling it this time.

A pause. "What precisely are you asking?" Snape had lowered his voice. Harry allowed the question to hover in the air for a moment.

"Well?"

"Was Sirius Black in your year?"

A million little feet tap danced on the roof. The rain had picked up again.

"Look at me." Snape's deep voice blended in among the downpour. Comfy-sounding. Like a sigh.

But Harry felt anything but comfort as he lifted his face, looking into Snape's strange and very dark eyes.

"Why would you even think to ask that?" Snape queried, not bothering to raise his voice.

It didn't matter; Harry heard it.

"What's wrong with wondering?" Harry shot back. Though he kept his voice calm, he could still sense the defensiveness in his tone, and he didn't like how uncertain it made him sound.

Snape's forehead contorted. Harry had answered a question with a question. The man loved that. "What caused you to wonder?"

A question followed by another question. If only Harry could get his own forehead to make faces like Snape could…then his professor would know exactly how _Harry_ felt about this new addition to the game.

Harry's thumbnail was beginning to smart. He gripped his fingertips around the edge of the mottled book instead—the grubby evil twin to his own Volume IV. He couldn't help but wonder how Snape would react to yet another question.

"I assume you've swallowed your tongue," Snape said, without humor. "The only reason I can fathom for your refusal to continue this discussion…"

"I haven't."

"Then speak plainly."

Harry resumed sucking on his bottom lip. He handed Snape the book, watching his black eyebrows slowly peak as he opened the cover, dull eyes scanning the index before finding Harry's own.

"You…you wrote—"

"These are _my_ things."

The bump on Harry's head began to sting again. He was suddenly very aware of his own clammy skin. Each speck of dust on his glasses.

Snape's flaring nostrils.

"I know," Harry said dumbly. "I didn't mean to pry."

"No?" The mocking in Snape's tone was acidic.

Harry felt his teeth press together.

He was also very aware of the squeezing in his chest.

"You saw which carton I was looking through," he croaked, frowning. "Why didn't you tell me to buzz off?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "I should remind a twelve year old to mind his business?"

"I'll be thirteen in two days."

They glared at each other.

Harry's heart beat feverishly; he was surprised by the level of anger that had consumed him so quickly. "Why can't you tell me?"

The book clattered into the open box, causing Harry's shoulders to jerk.

"And why can't you control your blasted curiosity?" Snape snapped as he crouched back down, a strand of hair falling over his cheekbone. "Sit against that wall and do not move." He flipped his hand toward the wall nearest to where Harry had fallen after bumping his head. "Wait for me."

"Why?"

Snape's lips curled around his teeth. "Because _I said so_."

Harry blinked at him. He could feel the corners of his mouth twitching downwards, but he swallowed, pushing away such a babyish notion. Moving over to the wall, Harry sat down, plopping his back against the crisscrossed wooden beams, heavily enough to make the boards creak. He kicked a crooked nail with the side of his trainer, occasionally flicking hooded, frowning eyes toward his professor.

Snape hadn't moved. He hadn't even taken the hair out of his face. After a while, he exhaled. His very own nasal sigh.

The sound of rain pounding on the roof reached crescendo.

Finally, Snape stood. Rubbing his hand over his face, he turned. The floor boards creaked with his clipped steps. And then…

Snape swore loudly.

Harry glanced up. Snape was standing in the shadows, his head bowed, his hand squeezing the back of his neck.

Biting his lip, Harry fought back the tiniest of grins. "You have to keep your head down."

Snape looked over at him, still clutching his neck.

Harry found another rusty nail with his toe. He kicked it.

TBC…

* * *

**End Note: In regard to the modified Incarcerous incantation, Morsus means "pain" and Omnis means "all". No, Harry can't speak Latin ;-) Good thing, yes?**

**Chapter 14 will be up on Thursday! **

**Thanks for reading!**


	14. No Such Thing

**Chapter 14: No Such Thing**

"That's it?"

All eyes slowly turned to Harry, Hadrian's speckled blue and Snape's mud black, not to mention, the apprentice apothecary's—a young, blond-haired man whom Harry still hadn't been introduced to.

Snape had just taken out a delicately dried, perfectly round yellow leaf from the back of the book he had finally—finally—found in his collection (in his old bedroom, of all places) and was holding it carefully between his fingers, offering it to Hadrian.

Still rather vexed and ill-tempered, Harry hadn't bothered to follow his professor into the small, dusty bedroom. In fact, once they had made their way back downstairs, Harry had sat on the sofa, eyes tracing the million other books that Snape had stuffed into his living room shelves, uninterested in trailing after Snape into the kitchen as he fiddled around with the damper. Snape hadn't pushed him, and Harry didn't care.

If Snape wanted to drag him through his moldy house in The-Middle-of-Nowhere, England without giving him any details about _anything_, that was Snape's business.

But Harry didn't have to go traipsing through any more of the man's past life than he must. Even though Snape had so easily traipsed through Harry's…

Who gave a bloody bother? _Harry_ didn't.

He didn't.

"So the lad c'n speak, can he?" Hadrian burbled through a thick Irish accent.

Snape blinked at Harry. "Unfortunately."

Nudging his glasses to rights with his forefinger, Harry slouched down in his chair and continued picking at the edge of the small table in front of him. The other three men were gathered around Hadrian's counter near the back of the shop, conversing in mutters. Aside from the bottles of jewel-colored potions along the shelves and the candle-lit chandelier hanging from the ceiling, Hadrian's shop was even more boring than Snape's office. And filthier than the brick house from which they'd Apparated. The sun was shining but the shop was dark, the windows painted with dust and grime.

If Snape had spent the day here, brewing potions with this stubby bloke, no wonder he hadn't allowed Harry to come along. They had only been here for ten minutes and already, Harry was bored out of his mind.

Maybe Snape noticed, because not more than a moment or two later, a folded newspaper floated from the countertop to just under Harry's nose, settling on his table.

Harry caught Snape's eye for only a second before glancing down at the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. He smiled, his heart swelling, when he noticed the entire Weasley family waving back at him, grinning heartily in their black-and-white photograph. Harry hadn't realized how much he missed his best mate. He missed all of the Weasleys, actually—even Percy.

Resting his chin on his forearm, Harry settled in to read the small article printed next to the Weasleys' picture: _**Ministry of Magic Employee Scoops Grand Prize**__._

So Snape had been telling the truth—the Weasleys _were_ in Egypt. Harry went on to read about the seven hundred Galleons that had fallen into Mr. Weasley's good favor. With the extra money, they were able to visit Bill.

"Well done, mate," Harry mumbled to himself, smiling again. Ron was slouching with his hands shoved into his pockets, but he was grinning widely enough to show all of his teeth.

Reading through the article a second time, Harry folded up the newspaper into a small waded square and shoved it in his back pocket, like he always did with Snape's.

Hadrian's gritty voice carried across the empty shop, "Crush it into powder, Flinn." The man was holding open a green curtain, calling out orders to his apprentice, who, apparently, had gone into a room Harry couldn't see. "Store it in one of the wee vials. And take care you don't waste a speck of it."

Snape was no longer holding the leaf, so Harry assumed Hadrian had instructed Flinn to annihilate that flimsy yellow thing.

Harry's eyes met Professor Snape's again; he opened his mouth to tell him about Ron's family and the gold prize when Harry remembered that he was rather annoyed with Snape, even if Snape had shown him the article in the first place. He resumed his slump.

Hadrian returned from the other side of the curtain. "That'll be enough for at least twenty batches of the paralyzing serum, Sev'rus."

Snape cleared his throat loudly, causing Harry to glance up in time to see Snape shake his head—a tiny movement that Harry would have missed had he been looking away.

Hadrian must have missed it as well, as he only leaned down to retrieve a metal box from underneath the counter, grimacing and clutching his lower back as he eased up. He continued speaking, "Peter Pettigrew was only a lad when he came into my shop, asking for the same serum—for his mam, he said."

_Pettigrew_. Harry recalled the name from somewhere, though the source was a bit fuzzy.

"Mm," Snape replied absently. He had his back turned now, so Harry couldn't tell whether Snape's face exhibited the same amount of boredom that was laced through his tone.

Hadrian counted coins into his palm. "A paralyzing serum for his mother," the ginger man murmured, shaking his head, "in place of an amputation…to deaden the nerves. His mother never cared much for healers, he said."

"Charming." Snape transferred the pile of galleons into his leather change purse and drew up the tie.

Listening intently, Harry imagined a dumpy woman dragging her foot behind her, pitching a fit when her son tried to take her to see a doctor. He snorted—quiet amusement.

Once again, all eyes were on Harry. At least he'd thought it was quiet…

Sharing a wary glance between the two men, Harry sat up a little straighter when he realized that he, indeed, had the floor.

"But if she paralyzed her leg, then how could she walk?" Harry wondered, directing the question to no one in particular. "Why not just have it chopped?"

Snape stared at him.

Hadrian let out a bark of laughter that shot through Harry like a bullet, pinning his shoulders to the chair back.

Squeaking noises drifted in from the room behind the drapery; Harry had watched Snape prepare potions ingredients enough to know that Hadrian's apprentice had begun crushing the leaf into powder with a marble stone.

"Bit practical, that one…" Hadrian commented to Snape, his blue eyes shining but hard, like glass. Snape continued to eye Harry with his deadpan expression. A paralysis of its very own. "To deaden the pain, boy; it was constant," the apothecary continued; the redness in his cheeks reminded Harry of Uncle Vernon. Made him uncomfortable. He wasn't overly fond of this man.

Harry frowned. "Why not take a pain reliever, then?" He'd labeled dozens of vials of Snape's strongest pain-relieving potion last year.

Hadrian sniffed out a chortle. "We've got an apprentice healer on our hands, Sev'rus."

"That is quite enough," Snape said stiffly. And then, after a pause, "My ward is in a foul disposition today—disregard him."

"Right…" Harry mumbled as he lowered his eyes, swearing he could feel Snape's gaze singeing his fringe. But when he dared peek over the rims of his glasses, Snape had turned back to Hadrian.

"I will be in contact," Snape muttered before sweeping around the squat man, who followed Snape with his ice-blue eyes.

Snape's boots punished the floor in steady clicking tempo.

"A minute, Sev'rus," Hadrian called out before Snape reached Harry. "Alone, if you please…" His ham hock knees bowed out as he tapped his fingertips together.

Snape gazed straight ahead, considering the request. "Sit tightly." His eyes traveled downwards, expectantly.

Harry nodded.

The two men disappeared through the curtain. In the next second, Flinn darted out, his cheeks hollowed in concentration as he entered another room behind the counter and slammed the door, leaving Harry in silence that stretched over the entire shop like a floating cobweb.

A peculiar mixture of irritation and worry washed over Harry as he sat very still in his chair. He didn't expect to be included in the secret conversation, but he was awfully tired of being left behind—expected to sit—and wait. Like a gaudy knickknack on a shelf that no one wanted to dust. If Harry were braver, or cared less about angering Professor Snape, he might have stepped out for a bit of air.

Instead, he pushed his chair away from the table and crossed the floor as quietly as he could; he studied a row of bottled potions—all various shades of green and stamped with a tin label. A curly 'H' had been scratched into the corner of each one. Harry carefully fingered one of the vials, twisting it around to see the price: seven galleons.

_Wow_, Harry thought. Snape could make a fortune.

A heavy thump sounded from behind the curtain. Harry's fingers twitched, nearly upsetting the vial. He held his breath, his heartbeat suddenly thrumming in his ears. The drapery danced with a small gust of wind that must have come from the other side.

Muffled grumbling. "…completely _mad_?"

Snape's voice.

Hadrian twittered a response—his voice gruff and defensive.

Harry took a large step toward the curtain, breathing as quietly as he could. He poked his forefinger toward the drapery, curled it in his fist, reconsidering for an instant, and then… reconsidered his consideration.

Snape would kill him if he knew. But, judging by the mental gleam in Hadrian's beady eyes, Harry hardly doubted the frizzy-haired nutter would kill _Snape_ if need be.

He drew aside the edge of the curtain, revealing a crack of light as thin as string. Harry leaned forward.

More muddled sound. And then Snape's deep voice cut through the quiet.

"…I asked you to contact a single person, Gibbon. One."

_Gibbon_?

"He was there when Regulus took the mark," Hadrian murmured, though his voice was getting higher and slightly more frantic. "…knows of the Blacks better than I, Sev'rus. Faithful to Walburga and her lot."

Snape's voice was cutting in and out like a fuzzy station on the radio. "…we agreed…never to be contacted…Dolohov is more dangerous—"

Hadrian's mumbling.

Snape's voice grew dark, easily cutting through the drawl. "—No, it was _more_ than foolish."

"If Black's sought out anyone it would be a barmy enough bloke—"

"Lower your voice."

A long pause.

The voices resumed in mutters. Whispers.

Harry eased the drapery closed.

"Oy…"

Harry's heart slid down to his feet as he caught sight of Hadrian's apprentice, standing over the threshold of the storage room, handfuls of spiky herbs clenched in both fists.

Harry took several steps back, his shoulder blades bumping into the shelves.

Flinn's eyes grew round as two vials tipped over and landed face down onto the floor. In shards.

Dark green liquid pooled onto the floor boards.

Without thinking, Harry dropped into a squat and began gathering up several of the larger pieces, which dripped potion onto his trousers.

"No!" Flinn exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, dropping the leaves onto the counter as he zipped around it, reaching for his wand. "Don't touch that!"

Harry could only stare as the denim of his jeans began fraying away where the potion had bled.

Just as Flinn cleared the mess, the broken pieces clinking together as they repaired and settled onto the shelf—empty bottles now—Snape's face appeared from behind the drapery, his forehead deeply creased as his gaze drifted from Flinn's wand arm at the ready, to the dark, wet stain on the floor, and finally, to Harry.

Hadrian stood at Snape's side, his freckles pale on his blotchy, purpling face as he opened his mouth to scold his apprentice.

The man had begun to rant, but Harry didn't hear it. As Snape moved around the thin boy, Harry did the only logical thing that popped into his head. He bolted for the door.

Snape's shout mingled with the tinkling of bells as Harry stepped out onto the cobblestones of a street even older and more run down than Snape's street and Knockturn Alley combined. And it appeared to be deserted.

Having nowhere to go, Harry jammed his back against the murky store window.

Snape strode right past him. Harry watched him go, knowing well that in a minute he would turn around.

In this case, it was less than a minute.

Snape's long legs carried him back to Hadrian's in just a few strides.

Harry slid down the window, sinking to the ground to avoid his professor's grasp, but Snape only hauled him back up with a firm grip on Harry's elbow. Snape's lips were graying around the edge, quivering. He glared at Harry for a long moment.

And then, emitting a growl deep in his chest, Snape released him. The hand that had been holding Harry's arm was now clutching a handful of black hair atop Snape's head as he turned from the window, his back heaving with silent breaths.

It wasn't until Harry sat down heavily on a nearby iron bench that he noticed the gaping holes in his trousers. His knees were stinging with shallow abrasions. The heels of his hands were raw and throbbed in time to his heartbeat. Harry's whole face felt flushed.

Snape was still gazing out into the street.

Terribly ashamed, Harry leaned over, the points of his elbows digging into his sore knees. He pulled his t-shirt up over his face, breathing in the scent of clean cotton.

Once again, Harry found himself waiting. Waiting to smother in his own clothing. Waiting for a hiding that would certainly come later if it didn't come very soon. Waiting for the bench to grow teeth and eat him alive…

Fresh air assaulted his face hot face as his shirt was yanked away, but Harry kept his forehead pressed into his fists.

Without a word, Snape knelt down and began cleaning Harry's knees—uncorking a tiny vial of clear solution and dribbling it onto Harry's burns, smoking, smarting so much that his feet twitched, but Snape gently held each of Harry's legs still until the aching stopped.

He repeated the process with Harry's hands, which were now bright red and beginning to peel around the edges. This time, though, Harry couldn't be quiet. He hissed through his teeth and tried to lift up off the bench, but like last time, Snape held him still, flexing Harry's fingers back and forth until his palms only tingled.

Snape's mouth was still pressed into a thin line, but after sealing and pocketing the potion, Snape reached up and thumbed away the few tears that had escaped and trailed down Harry's cheeks.

The unexpected kindness had Harry's breath hitching, his eyes traitorously filling with a new round of tears as he tried to focus on the dirty window. But with deep breaths, he was able to calm himself quickly.

"What was that?" Harry asked through a stuffy nose, much to his annoyance.

"Skin-repairing solution." Snape stood, pulling Harry up by the elbow again; he followed without a fuss. "A first-aid kit has become vital with you in tow."

There was raw truth in that.

Harry tried to sniff away the clogged sensation. "I'll go apologize."

Snape held him back with a stiff arm across his chest. "No need," he said bitterly, curling a lip in disgust at the filthy shop. "He would not be able to produce half of his potions without my assistance."

"Oh…right."

Snape's reverence for Hadrian and his _elixirs in concentrated form_ had seemed to fizzle out in blinking speed.

"We are going home."

Harry hooked his thumbs into his pockets. "Oh."

"Indeed, young man."

Fortunately for Harry, Snape had given him his just desserts in the form of a scathing lecture while the two of them polished the stack of solid gold cauldrons in Snape's classroom, which was usually off-limits to Harry's scratching and smudging. Snape poured the ruby red polishing solution into the bottom of each cauldron and Harry's job was to rub it into the metal with the soft flannel in slow circles. Snail circles.

The speed of the earth's rotation around the sun circles.

_Not ovals, boy_. _Circles_.

Harry studied the reflection of his glasses in the cauldron; they appeared twice their normal size. Making faces at himself would have been a brilliant way to ignore Snape's monotone rambling about Harry rushing headlong into everything and Harry losing his temper as often as a toddler and Harry needing to curb his spite tongue…

Harry this, Harry that.

But even pretending that the polishing potion was blood collected by a vampire wasn't drowning out Snape's solemn scolding in the least.

This afternoon, Harry simply soaked in every word whether or not he wanted to.

He stacked his third sparkling cauldron, careful not to bang it against the other two, which were symmetrically vertical with one another. He started on the fourth and final one.

But before Harry even began his first circle with the flannel, Snape grabbed the lip of the cauldron and set it onto the black desktop.

Harry sat on his stool, his feet dangling far from the ground like they always did. He wrapped a loose denim thread around his fingertip until it turned maroon.

"I want you to understand something."

Harry lifted his chin. Snape wasn't smiling. But he wasn't angry. He wasn't…anything. Only his eyes struck Harry—soft and sober.

"There will be times when I ask that you not question my actions… or my words," Snape began. "And you needn't expect an explanation, because I shall not provide you with one."

Harry didn't know what Snape wanted him to say, so he just sat there, his hands in fists on his lap.

"I am your professor," Snape continued as he reached forward and unraveled the string from Harry's finger; he let it float to the ground. "And I am your guardian. But above all, I am a dull man; I am used to being alone. And I am accustomed to privacy."

"Then how come you took me with you today?" Harry wondered, his voice gravelly from not speaking for nearly a half-hour—a rarity in itself. "If you didn't want me to see the house where you grew up, why did you take me?"

"Let me finish."

Harry averted his eyes, cracking a knuckle.

"I haven't been to my home in Stockport for nearly three years," Snape informed him. "I care very little about the property, and have no plans to return. The flat was owned by my father for over fifty years, and his father before him."

"Why don't you sell it?" Harry suggested. "If I ever ended up with Uncle Vernon's house, I'd sell it right away."

Snape's eyes grew dim. "I don't know."

"I can help you fix it up to sell…"

"Let me finish," Snape said again.

Harry clasped his hands between his knees.

Snape swallowed; he seemed to be chewing over what he wanted to say next. "I invited you into a place I would have rather not been, and it was only natural that you inquire about it. It was illogical of me not to foresee this."

"I don't mind," Harry said, feeling squirmy and uncomfortable when he realized that Snape was trying to apologize.

"You did."

_I did_, Harry thought. After all, Professor Snape knew about the hand-me-downs of Dudley's that Harry was forced to wear throughout his childhood…down to his pants. But, again, Harry remained silent, waiting for Snape to finish.

Quickly, Harry hoped. It was much simpler to sulk.

"Can I ask you something?" Harry ventured, figuring he might as well go for it when Snape in a sharing mood. The question had been weighing on Harry's heart all day.

"May you ask…"

"May I?" Harry corrected.

Snape pursed his lips, giving the go-ahead signal with his eyebrow.

"Don't blast me, all right?"

"Go on, Harry…"

"Did Sirius Black…" Harry observed Snape's face with vigilance. "Did he know my dad?" Harry swallowed around a dry throat, shocked at how quickly his tongue had shriveled.

A pause. Eternity.

"Yes." Snape swallowed as well. "They were acquainted."

For some reason, Harry had expected this. But hearing it was a cannonball to the gut.

"No one expected Black to turn out a murderer," Snape supplied, with uncharacteristic gentleness. "It couldn't have been helped."

Harry didn't know whether to believe Snape or not, but he was the best Harry had, so he did. He kept the bit about the _Incarcerous _spell to himself, not caring to know the truth.

He retrieved the gold cauldron from the middle of the lab table and resumed his polishing. "What was that leaf you gave to Hadrian?"

"Wild Porsythemus."

"Like the Greek god?" Harry concentrated on his circles, catching Snape's reflection in the gold—his frowning, head-shaking reflection.

"Like the poisonous leaf, Potter…" Snape sighed through his nose. "It must be dried and pressed for years in order to be used in paralyzing solution."

"Oh. I've never seen it."

"I should hope not. It grows in the Forbidden Forest once a decade," Snape supplied; he slid Harry's stack closer his side of the table.

"I've been there," Harry continued, flipping his cauldron over to polish the bottom. "Me and Hermione had detention with Hagrid in the Forest first year."

"There are few places you _haven't_ been..."

"Haven't been to Egypt." Harry gave Snape a glimpse of a grin and passed him the glowing cauldron.

TBC…

* * *

**Author's Note: A big thanks to Tabitha for previewing this for me! And thanks for all the reviews :-) Harry's b-day is coming up, and I suppose we'll have to hear from the bearded meddler sooner or later... Is meddler a word?**

**Someone asked about Remus-yes, he'll return in a few chapters. He's one of my very favorite characters to write.**

**Thanks for sticking round! I'm hoping to update next week; loving the encouragement. Thanks so much for it :-) **


	15. Many Happy Returns

**Author's Note**: **Thanks so much for all of the reviews and kind words of encouragement! Feels like I've been working ages on this one; hope you enjoy!**

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**Chapter 15: Many Happy Returns**

Snape had allowed Harry to visit Hagrid the day after their trip to England, partly because Hagrid had sent Snape a letter, asking if Harry could come for a mid-morning tea, but mostly because Snape had been organizing bits of parchment and scrawling away in a leather-bound notebook since after breakfast, and his huffs-for-answers and irritated scowls in Harry's direction had grown louder and more frequent.

Harry had been given permission to fly his broomstick near Hagrid's hut as well, but in the end, Harry had decided against it: flying solo wasn't much fun without a snitch to chase. Moreover, Harry knew Snape had intended for Hagrid to watch Harry fly, and as far as Harry was concerned, Hagrid was his friend, not his nanny.

Snape hadn't acted as though he cared one way or the other.

So Harry had visited with Hagrid until the noon hour, telling him about Ron's family and the pile of galleons Mr. Weasley had won while Fang rested his head on Harry's knee, slobbering onto his jeans.

Just as the tea kettle had begun to whistle on the stove, Hagrid surprised Harry with a sloppily decorated birthday cake, cutting into the thick, yellow icing with a puffed-up chest and a twinkle in his eye.

"Day early but I din't want ter spoil yer real one," Hagrid had explained, which, at the time, meant nothing to Harry, but he hadn't told Hagrid so.

Instead, he'd smiled and given Hagrid his heartiest thanks, only to stop smiling seconds later.

The cake was chewy. And the icing was gritty and sticky—like toothpaste but much sweeter. Too sweet.

Hagrid made a right good cup of tea, but Harry, Hermione, and even Ron usually steered clear of Hagrid's baking, lest they crack a tooth on one of his rock cakes or end up with a mouthful of uncooked batter. But Hagrid wouldn't stop beaming, and so Harry suffered through almost an entire piece of birthday cake, keeping his nasal passages firmly sealed to escape as much of the taste as he could.

Back at the castle, before he put a bite of lunch in his mouth, Harry had gulped down his entire glass of milk without coming up for air, ignoring the portion of Snape's eyebrow that he could see over the rim—contorting itself into a question mark that spoke more of revulsion than inquiry.

"Can I go back, then?"

Snape banished the empty dishes and went directly to his desk, peering down into his notebook as if he were trying to remember if he'd actually written in it. "You've still got my essay to complete."

"I'm halfway."

"You have written the introduction." Snape looked up from his book.

"You made me rewrite it three times," Harry complained in defense of his two-hour-long effort.

"Your theory statement was atrocious…"

Harry flopped into Snape's armchair next to the fireplace, tucking one stocking foot underneath his leg. "I'm not good at stating the theory."

"A first-year excuse." Snape's voice crept over the top of Harry's chair. "A Longbottom excuse."

"No, it isn't," Harry argued mildly. "You put a slash through every one that I write for your class."

"Well," Snape said, dropping his book back onto his desk with a _slap_ loud enough to make Harry's scalp tingle, "then it's laziness."

Harry craned his neck around. "I rewrote it, didn't I?"

Snape studied him, as though Harry were the dullest person alive. He pursed his lips. "Carry your shoes to your dormitory. Better yet, put them on—you look like a heathen."

"Please, can I go back to Hagrid's?" Harry implored, ignoring Snape's idiotic appraisal. "He's got something to show me at dusk—at the top of the Astronomy Tower."

"He spoke nothing of such plans in his letter."

"That was to ask for tea!"

"Your tone," Snape began in a silky voice as he rounded the corner of his desk and easily lifted Harry out of the cozy chair by an armpit, "is setting my teeth on edge." Snape sent Harry stumbling toward his trainers with a backhanded whap that managed to sting even through the seat of his jeans. "Shoes. Out."

"You never answered my question," Harry said, as he stooped down to scoop up his dirt-smudged trainers by the shoestrings. "You changed the subject…"

"I haven't said a word against it."

Harry swung his shoes a bit. "I can go, then?"

Snape seated himself at his desk and dipped his quill into ink. "We shall see."

"Ugh," Harry huffed, trudging through the common room and into his dormitory. His trainers clunked onto the floor; one flew underneath his bed.

Snape certainly knew how to be a git.

But, judging by previous experience, Harry knew that his professor could become even nastier if he wanted. Sighing, Harry straightened the hem of his t-shirt and walked back through the common room, slowly this time.

Snape was still hunched over his desk, the ends of his hair twitching, his shoulders quivering with each quill stroke. Poor parchment was sure to tear one of these days. Harry doubted Snape would even notice.

"Are you quite finished?"

Choosing to ignore Snape for now, Harry stretched out on the sofa, resting the back of his neck against the arm; he watched Snape's quill torture the parchment for another few moments: scratch, swoop, _plunk_—scratch, swoop, more scratching, _plunk_. Black hair swinging like a pendulum-gone-loopy.

Harry wedged his feet into the sofa cushion.

Snape squinted down his nose at the two sentences he'd just written. He scrawled a large "X" through the entire page.

He slammed the book closed and turned a bit in his chair, tossing the gnarled hair out of his eyes. He zoomed in on Harry, who was laid out like a man in a coffin, with his hands laced together across his stomach.

"What?" Snape snapped.

Harry grinned a bit. "I'll bet Hagrid's installing new telescopes that can see planets."

Snape narrowed his gaze into a grimace. "Stimulating."

"You said you liked Astronomy."

Snape gave a quiet grunt that was neither here nor there. "You have two hours," he informed. "And then you'll be settling down to finish your essay. Sign the book and run along."

"May I borrow a snitch?"

"Are you allowed in the Quidditch pitch?"

"Dunno," Harry said truthfully. "I should be, shouldn't I?"

Snape smirked. "Very clever, Mr. Potter."

"I practiced out there by myself loads last year."

"You don't say."

Harry sat up. "I can't go to the library for another minute," he pleaded. "I'll never want to set foot in there again."

Snape considered him, blinking evenly—as measured as the ticking clock.

"I'll be very careful."

"You've no one to show off for out there," Snape told him, "so no stunts."

"I never show off…"

"Two hours."

Harry dashed toward his dormitory; a string of Snape's warnings followed him all the way to his trunk, but they were static in Harry's ears. He yanked out his elbow and knee pads and, after some thought, his safety goggles; Harry had a feeling he wouldn't be setting a toe outside their quarters without all three of them.

* * *

Severus gazed down at the proposal he had just concluded, his lip curling. He dipped his quill into fresh ink; he held it poised near the end of the parchment.

All it needed was a signature. And then Cornelius Fudge would know everything.

The wall clock ticked steadily.

Albus couldn't possibly blame him; the Wolf was deluded if he thought he could. . .

Black ink dotted the paper, bleeding into the parchment.

Irritated, Severus pushed his hair out of his eyes; he rolled the quill between his thumb and forefinger.

A soft knock sounded at his office door.

Severus speared his quill into the half-empty inkpot and released the parchment, watching it curl up like a scroll.

Another knock.

"A moment," Severus grumbled. He knew that knock. The only summons he allowed himself to ignore, at least for a short while. As of late, anyway.

The door creaked open.

Severus snatched his leather notebook from the shelf, where he cataloged long and messy lists of original potions and elixirs, and flipped it open to a random page. He picked up his quill and retraced his latest addition—_powdered dragonfly_ _wings_—to his own, better-tasting version of a sinus infection remedy. He traced it twice.

The sofa seemed to sigh as its occupant sank slowly into one of the cushions.

"I thought perhaps the Ministry had succeeded in recruiting you." The words felt cold and dry; like stale bread in Severus' mouth. He bowed out his quill, certain it would snap.

"I convinced Cornelius to keep the dementors a reasonable distance from the gates of Hogwarts," Dumbledore said tiredly.

Snape set down his quill, turning in his chair, only as he must.

Dark circles hung low beneath the headmaster's spectacles, and Severus noticed the old man still adorned the same robes he had worn over twenty-four hours ago, but somehow, Albus appeared fully alert. He stared into the fire, tapping his thumbs together.

"He refused, however," Dumbledore continued in the same placid tone, "to banish them from Hogsmeade. Or Diagon Alley." The old man sighed. "At least during the night."

Severus swallowed, choosing to remain silent. Surely Albus had more to tell.

"We've other ways of keeping Harry safe." The headmaster lifted his chin; his half-moon spectacles flashed. "Cornelius is well aware of this."

"By keeping him ill-informed, you mean."

Dumbledore's gaze shifted; a rusty movement. "Do you suppose knowing such information would keep the boy safe?"

"This is Harry Potter we're speaking of, Albus." Snape pursed his lips; his eyes drifted toward the rug. "If we leave him in the dark concerning Sirius Black, he'll find out another way."

"If _you_ choose not to disclose the information, you mean."

Severus raised his eyes; even a frown required too much effort. "If _I_ choose…" Severus repeated. "What do you mean?"

"Harry is your ward, Severus."

Severus blinked.

The headmaster glanced down his nose.

This time, the frown came easily. "Your point?"

Dumbledore drew in a deep breath. "I trust you to do what you believe is right, Severus," the old man stated. "You do know him better than I."

The truth flooded Severus' ears—as intrusive as lake water he couldn't tap out. His chest coiled with frustration and burning anger that refused to recede.

After a moment, Severus cleared his throat. "I've no idea what you want from me, Headmaster," Severus accused. "Either I protect the boy, or he remains vulnerable in the hands of a man as dubious as Remus Lupin." The bitterness crept in, and Severus did nothing to deter it. "Either he learns to defend himself properly, or I keep him tethered."

"Severus…"

"You _cannot_," Severus continued, standing his ground as he gazed straight into the weary, blue eyes, "have it both ways, Albus. I can't have it."

The white beard dipped; reflections of firelight cavorted about the old man's spectacles. "I made a mistake," Albus said quietly. "And I am sorry, Severus. Securing Harry within our grounds is a duty in itself, and I allowed optimism to cloud my judgment when I gave my word for Diagon Alley. But I must tell you," he went on, his features drawn and solemn, "Remus is a good man."

Severus clenched his teeth, dropped his gaze.

"You haven't any idea of how repentant he was for an error he had no right to claim." The leather chair groaned as Dumbledore leaned forward. "Please look at me, Severus."

Severus complied, but only just.

"I trust you are doing all you can for Harry," Dumbledore said. "I know this. I haven't questioned you, and I will not."

The clock chimed the new hour, but the headmaster hardly blinked. "Do me the same courtesy." Several minutes passed before Albus led himself to the door; he left without a word.

The clock ticked on in the silence.

Severus smoothed out his letter with stiff fingers.

Harry wouldn't return for several hours; he'd use a barn owl to carry his letter to the Emporium. The Ministry preferred regulated post.

Loud, even ticking.

Severus scratched at an eyebrow; reviewed his use of syntax. _...werewolf's unmatched danger…_

…_the unmatched danger a werewolf possesses..._

Not as concise, but certainly more effective.

Severus bowed out his quill with his fingers.

The ticking of a clock; the snapping of a quill—both noises eerily similar.

A quarter of an hour passed before the unsent letter disintegrated to ash in Severus' hearth.

* * *

If Snape would have walked into his chambers at that very moment, he would have found Harry in the same position as he had left him after lunch: sprawled on the sofa.

This time, however, Harry was curled up on his side, counting pieces of fuzz on the carpet so he wouldn't have to think about how queasy or sweaty he felt. Globs of yellow toothpaste-frosting were wiggling around in Harry's mind, taunting him; even worse, he knew exactly what those blobs tasted like. And his stomach was less than appreciative of the second piece of Hagrid's cake that Harry had forced his throat to swallow, after swooping and diving on his Nimbus for an hour.

Harry blew out his breath and wiped away the dots of perspiration forming along his brow. That cake must have turned to clay in his stomach. Concrete.

Yellow, chunky concrete.

Rolling onto his stomach, Harry smashed his face into the leather pillow. Maybe if he blacked out from lack of oxygen, he wouldn't have to feel this awful, roiling twinge in his belly.

Minutes later, perhaps hours for all Harry knew, he heard the faint open and close of the door—the _swoosh_, _squeak_, _click_ that had become as familiar and mundane as crickets' chirping.

Recognizing the sound of Snape's footsteps, Harry kept his face firmly planted in the pillow and concentrated on breathing without throwing up.

"Dinner isn't for another hour, at least."

The sound of fabric flapping told Harry that Snape had shrugged out of his robes and had hung them on the hook on the wall.

"If, indeed, you produced a passable essay in less than an hour, I'll digest my own wand."

Harry ignored this; instead, he suddenly remembered that his trainers and socks were askew on all four corners of the rug in front of the fireplace—his goggles and Quidditch gloves on Snape's chair. Harry's stomach gurgled, flopped like a fish out of water; he tucked his knees up a bit more.

Snape could pick them up himself.

And Fang could eat the stupid essay as dog food, for all Harry cared.

"You had better hope your Quidditch goggles don't ruin my fireplace when they melt on the logs."

_A comedian_, Harry thought to himself. _A bloody foul one_. But he couldn't even manage to pull a sour face into the pillow at Snape's threat. Harry squirmed in sweaty misery.

He felt Snape's cool hand on the back of his neck. Rough knuckles touched Harry's cheek.

"Overexerted yourself," Snape commented. "For whom were you demonstrating? The trees or the birds?"

"I was hardly in the air…" Harry mumbled into the pillow, lacking the strength for a proper retort. Harry could almost hear Snape's eyebrows crumple together. "Hagrid was cheering and waving his arms about; I couldn't concentrate," he explained.

"An atmosphere so foreign to a typical Quidditch match."

Harry knew what he'd said was stupid, but at the time it had all made sense—the hoarse cheering, the wind, the hardening lump of goo in his stomach…

Too, too much.

Kind of like now: when Snape's blabbering resembled rusty nails on china.

Harry groaned into the pillow, twisting his hips to try out a different position for his watery stomach. Snape was staring at him; Harry could feel it.

"What aches?" His professor finally asked, his voice much closer to Harry's ear this time.

No, belly to the cushion wasn't helping either. Harry wriggled his way onto his back and rested an arm across his forehead; he kept his eyes tightly shut. The imaginary blobs of cake were oozing yellow slime now. Harry felt his nose wrinkle in disgust. "Stomach," he slurred. Admitting it, however, only made him feel worse. "Ugh." Harry turned on his side again, throwing both arms across his glasses now. "It kills."

The pressure of Snape's hand was on Harry's hip for the briefest of seconds. "Lie there," Snape murmured, further away now. "I'll return in a moment."

_Brilliant idea_, Harry scoffed to himself. What did Snape expect him to do? Calisthenics?

"I declare…" The rusty nail voice returned, along with Snape's quick footsteps. "You require more healing elixirs in a week than any child I have ever dealt with. Roll over."

Harry obeyed, opening his eyes to orange bursts of color and Snape's hair in his face. His throat felt clogged. "Sorry," Harry murmured, half-rasping, as he eased up on one elbow.

"Wasted breath," Snape said, tipping a vile against Harry's lips. "You needn't apologize for a stomach ache."

Harry drank the potion without question, even though his mouth sagged in disgust from the sharp taste—sugarless cherry syrup. Closing his eyes again, he let his head sink back onto the flat sofa; Snape had removed the pillow from under his neck.

"Give it time."

"I know," Harry croaked, all-too familiar with the agonizing waiting period between the swallowing and the reparation. He imagined the potion coating his stomach. "I had a bit too much of it."

"Of what?" Snape was still nearby.

"Hagrid's birthday cake."

A pause. "Cake."

"It tasted like toothpaste and dust…"

"You enjoy eating such things?"

Harry's breath felt foreign, too hot in his own throat. "He made it for my birthday."

"Clearly."

"Well," Harry said, "if someone makes you a birthday cake, you have to eat it."

"Or else, all is lost."

"You know what I mean," Harry complained weakly. "You just…" He stopped, unsure what he was meaning to say next.

"You are not entitled to eat the entire cake," Snape said, the declaration slow and deliberate.

Harry's tongue seemed to swell in his throat. "How was I supposed to know?"

"You eat a _piece_ of cake." Snape maneuvered Harry's jacket off of his arms, slipping it out from under his back. "What sort of idiot consumes a cake—"

"God," Harry moaned, rolling onto his side and smashing his face in the corner of the sofa again. "Stop saying that word. Please."

"The stomach-soother should be taking effect," Snape informed, changing the subject.

"It's not." Tiny fireworks exploded behind Harry's lids as he twisted back around. He must have looked like a swivel chair. The whole room was humid now; the cold sweat on his forearms felt like a second skin.

The wind from Snape's brisk movements brushed Harry's cheeks. His professor returned in blinking speed. "Another one—lift your head."

Harry's neck felt as though it was holding up a sack full of potatoes, but he obeyed as best as he could, slurping down a second, better-tasting potion as Snape held the rim to his lips. This one was sweeter; tasted like cinnamon.

Harry relaxed back onto the pillow for a moment, and then…

His stomach gurgled. A mad feline's growl.

Harry's eyes flew open; the cool sweat on his arms warmed instantly. He stood so quickly that he tripped over his trainer, nearly falling on his face. Tossing away Snape's fingers round his bicep, Harry hurriedly stumbled to the lavatory.

The Astronomy Tower at dusk was out of the question.

* * *

Harry found himself in bed long before dusk. The last time Harry had gone to bed that early was last summer, when Uncle Vernon forced Harry to stay in his room while he and the rest of the family ate dinner with Uncle Vernon's boss. And Harry wasn't made to actually go to sleep then. Tonight, however, his bedroom was as dimly lit as ever, and Harry had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, easily ignoring the fact that he hadn't even eaten dinner.

But it didn't matter. Harry vowed he would never eat again.

It was hours later when Harry sat up in bed, his pajamas damp with sweat; his stomach was beginning to coil again.

"There's nothing left in you," Harry groaned to himself, giving his belly a one-handed massage while he slapped at the night table to locate his glasses.

Once he could see again, Harry simply stared in dejected amazement at his latest blunder: while he'd been pawing around for his specs, he had knocked over the remaining dose of stomach-soothing potion that Snape had left for him in case of moments such as this one.

The git had left it uncorked.

Harry's stomach growled unhappily as Harry watched the last of the pale red potion drip off of the edge of the night table like a leaky spigot.

Throwing off his covers, Harry dizzily padded his way out of the dormitory, across the common room, and into Snape's quarters.

As expected, the fireplace was cold, the lanterns on the walls were barely flickering, and Snape's bedroom door was closed and locked.

Only the ugly clock near the fireplace greeted Harry with its never-ending _tick-tock_. It was nearly half-past four in the morning.

Harry stood behind the sofa, gripping his abdomen and feeling rather stupid, as he stared at Snape's door. He felt very much like Dudley at that moment, shouting for Aunt Petunia to come fluff his pillow and bring him a warm cup of chocolate after one of his nightmares. Harry had always reckoned Dudley must have dreamt of an empty refrigerator, judging by his cousin's high-pitched wails.

Scowling at the memory, Harry shuffled over to the door leading to the Dungeon corridor. After all, he knew where Snape's storage room was located; one _Alohamora_ and he would be in; he'd snatch the right potion and go back to bed.

The stone floor felt cold and damp on Harry's bare feet as he slinked down the corridor, lit by a single hanging torch. Soon, Harry was standing in front of the door to Snape's classroom. He tried the handle, but it was locked.

Harry took a step back, still gripping his stomach, which clenched like an angry fist now.

His wand. Of course.

If Harry felt foolish before, it hardly compared to how he was feeling at this moment.

His feet were freezing to the floor. He blinked several times, finding it difficult to swallow, but this only made Harry more irritated at himself. Rubbing the soles of his feet against the calves of his pajama trousers, Harry crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his fingers into his armpits, and walked as quickly as he could back to Snape's quarters.

Harry reached for the door latch, but it clicked open before he could touch it. Wiggling his hands back underneath his arms, Harry squinted up at a bleary-eyed Snape, who squinted back down at Harry, though his eyebrows were pinched much more tightly.

They stared at each other.

"Why are you out of bed?" Snape muttered, cinching his dressing gown with a knot in the middle. He cupped the back of Harry's head, urging him forward. "Get inside." Snape's voice was groggy and flat; Harry hadn't heard this version of it before.

Then again, Harry supposed he hadn't ever had a run-in with Snape at this time of night, either.

"I spilled the potion," Harry explained as Snape closed the door and trailed behind him. "I was going to get another; I didn't want to wake you." He tried to sink down onto the sofa, but Snape caught him round the ribs.

"No, get back in your bed," Snape commanded quietly, nudging Harry toward the common room. "I'll be there in a moment."

Harry dragged his feet. Only Snape's sigh trailed him this time.

Climbing onto his bed, Harry huddled beneath the warmth of his covers and shivered—deep bone-shivers that ran through his blood and had his stomach gripping yet again.

Stifling the urge to moan, Harry yanked his blankets more snuggly over his shoulder. Something clattered from the foot of his bed to the floor, causing Harry to jerk in surprise, but he was too tired to move a toe. Harry had begun drifting again when the flames swelled on the walls, giving the room an orange glow; he could just make out Snape's blurred imagine beside him, piling several parcels onto an empty bed.

"Swallow it all," Snape instructed to Harry, handing back a full vial of the stomach soother.

Harry eyed it warily. "This isn't going to make me—"

"No," Snape interrupted, understanding. "A single cleansing is sufficient."

Harry gulped it down as quickly as he could, passed off the empty vial, and was just starting to squirm underneath the blankets again, when he remembered…

"I spilled the other," Harry said in a muzzy-sounding voice. "I can clean it…" The pressure of Snape's hand on his chest had Harry lying flat in seconds.

The room dimmed again.

Harry blinked at the outline of Snape's wrist; the potion was taking effect. "Hagrid will be put-out," Harry mumbled, a great wave of sleepiness washing over him. "Should've used the Floo to call him."

"Only to transport yourself to God-knows-where?" Snape growled; his voice was tired, too. "Fascinating sense of preservation you've got, boy. One faulty trip through the Floo is quite enough for you."

"It would've only been my head," Harry spoke into his pillow after easing onto his stomach. "Called him, I mean…you'd've been right there…"

"_Only_ your head, is it? How foolish of me to overreact; such a trivial thing…your head."

Harry breathed deeply against his pillowcase. The lanterns extinguished to specks of flame.

"You needn't worry about Hagrid," Snape muttered from somewhere far away; the door creaked on its hinges. "I've taken care of it."

"All right."

A pause. "You're not to leave your bed for anything but the lavatory."

"'Right." Harry was a snowflake, but he couldn't feel the cold. He was floating. Drifting.

"You'll find two vials of your potion on your night table; don't spill them."

"Mm."

A longer pause. "Wake me next time."

Silence from the bed.

Snape closed Harry's door.

TBC…


	16. The Eyes that Mind

**Chapter 16: The Eyes that Mind**

"Brilliant," Harry commented, smiling as he tore the last scraps of wrapping paper from his birthday present from Hermione: a broom repair kit. He fingered the contents gently, as if they would self-destruct, and then snapped up the case. "Look at this." He held it out for Snape to see.

From his usual spot in front of the fireplace in his chambers, Snape momentarily abandoned the letter he was reading; he leaned forward the slightest bit and lifted his chin, surveying the shiny leather case. A non-committal nod was Snape's only sign of life before he resumed his reading.

He promptly returned to stone. "Finish your oatmeal."

Harry rolled his eyes. Even Snape's words were rock-hard and gray.

A bit like Harry's afternoon oatmeal.

Harry had woken on the morning of his thirteenth birthday, only to find out it wasn't morning—it was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon, and Snape hadn't shoved him awake even once. Harry had even forgotten, for a moment at least, that it was his birthday, that is until he nearly stubbed his toe on one of several wrapped parcels strewn on the floor at the foot of his bed; these were the thuds he'd heard after he had stumbled back in bed early this morning: his first-ever birthday presents kicked to the floor. A stomach-ache-induced accident, of course. There wasn't any cake, like Hagrid must have figured there would be, but to Harry, that was just another high point of this year's birthday. Maybe next year, he would like cake again.

He set Hermione's gift onto the coffee table, nudged away his bowl of oatmeal, for good measure, and reached for Ron's gift; he balanced the narrower end of the parcel against his pajama-clad thigh.

"What do you think this is?" Harry prompted his professor; he pushed his glasses up his nose as he waited for Snape to get his own away from that bloody parchment. Harry spotted the envelope on the arm of Snape's chair; he recognized the handwriting. "Is that for me—from McGonagall?"

Snape's eyes traveled, locked on Harry's. Finally. "Which would you suppose I answer first?"

Harry felt a half-smile creeping up on him; it was easier this afternoon, without that awful stomach ache plowing him over. He shrugged his innocence. "Both, I guess."

Snape stared at him.

"All right, then, the second one…"

"Hm." Snape folded the letter over his knuckles. "Yes."

"Yes, what?" Harry sniffed out. "It's for me?"

Snape blinked.

"Or, yes, it's from McGonagall?"

Another blink. A slow blink.

Harry nibbled at the corner of his lip, killing the slight amusement that had curled it. He picked at a complicated knot that held the paper together over his strangely-shaped gift. Never mind that he was complete pants at unknotting knots.

After a moment, a corner of the letter slid into Harry's vision. He took it before Snape changed his mind, letting the package rest in his lap for a moment. Harry smiled to himself when he saw the familiar crest and the salutation, introducing him to his third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

As he perused his list of books for this year, Snape quietly took Ron's gift from Harry's lap. He split the wrapping paper with a lazy wave of his wand and handed the odd-looking thing back to Harry.

"Thanks," Harry said absently, still reading his letter. He wrinkled his nose up at Snape. "She sent this to you instead of me?"

"You've one as well."

"Oh." Harry glanced back down at his list of textbooks. "I wonder if Professor Lupin chose…wait…hang on," Harry trailed off, his thoughts shifting like the wind. He eyed Snape suspiciously. "That can't be right; why do you get a letter?"

Snape was the one eyeing Harry this time, though his stare was slightly more narrowed. And not so much suspicious as patronizing.

"Why do you suppose?"

"Dunno," Harry said truthfully. _Why do you suppose I'm asking_? Harry wanted to add.

The contraption on his lap, however, chose that very second to whizz to life, howling in high-pitched tones as it spun against Harry's kneecap on its narrow end: the barmiest toy Harry had ever seen.

Just as quickly as it had whistled itself alive, the toy stopped spinning and toppled over again.

"What made it do that?" Harry asked as he gaped saucer-eyed at his professor. "Sounds awful."

"You're up to three questions, Mr. Potter," Snape informed Harry as he summoned the coffee urn to freshen his cup; his hair dangled in his face as he did so, the stream of steaming coffee simply blending in with all that black, but Harry heard him quite clearly, even behind the curtain. "Astounding, even for you."

Harry rolled his eyes, bit into the last half of his crumpet, and waited, chewing as slowly as he could. He stared at Snape through the smudges on his spectacles that never seemed to wipe away.

Snape drained the black coffee from his cup in measured sips.

Harry swallowed the rest of his crumpet, licked a bit of butter from his thumb. And waited.

"Start of term letters from Hogwarts," Snape began at last, turning toward Harry, who immediately abandoned counting dust specks on his glasses, "are sent to both students and their guardians." Snape nodded towards Harry's half-crumpled napkin, resting on his other knee.

Harry obliged, cleaning his fingers and disposing the napkin on top of his empty plate on the coffee table.

"Oh." Harry worried his bottom lip as he listened. "I didn't know that." Snape's eyes narrowed even further, but, for once, he left Harry's declaration alone.

Harry couldn't help but wonder, though, if his aunt and uncle had ever got a letter, too, not that he expected them to mention such a thing. Shaking off all thoughts of his relatives on such a pleasant afternoon—the nicest birthday Harry had ever had, so far—he picked up the letter Ron had sent him along with his present, suddenly realizing he'd forgot about it, and skimmed over his best mate's familiar scrawl: half-print, half-cursive. "Ron says it's a Pocket Sneakoscope," Harry informed Snape, who had gone back to scribbling in his worn leather notebook, which Harry had finally discovered were lesson plans for the upcoming year. "It's supposed to light up and spin if there's—"

"—if it senses an untrustworthy presence," Snape finished, with as much dullness as he could muster, it seemed. He continued writing. "I am aware."

Harry held it in his palm, sizing up the translucent orb that rotated on its points as Harry tilted it every which way. He smiled. "It's sort of brilliant, don't you think?"

"Nearly as brilliant as Mr. Weasley's scholastic endeavor."

"You saw it work," Harry argued in defense of his mate. "It lit up and everything."

"Mm."

"Well, it did," Harry insisted. "Could've sensed something dodgy and you're ignoring it…"

Unsurprisingly, Snape ignored this.

"This oatmeal, probably," Harry mumbled.

Snape's eyebrows climbed slowly to his hairline.

Ducking his chin, Harry bit his lips together to hide any trace of a grin; he picked up one of his gifts from Snape, a thick volume entitled _Silent Spells and how to Maneuver Them_, nudged his glasses to the bridge of his nose again, and cracked open the stiff cover to the table of contents. Harry perused the chapter titles for a moment, which didn't seem all that different from his other how-to books on Defense. But the chapters were definitely longer…and of smaller print.

"Don't you just say the incantation in your head instead of out loud?" Harry wondered, scraping his thumbnail along the hefty edge of _Silent Spells_ _and its_ _Million Pages_. "They've got _Lumos_ listed in the first chapter, but it isn't really a Defense spell—can't be that hard to do it silently—I can cast it quite well now."

"Be certain to include that brilliant insight in your analysis on producing silent incantations…"

Harry watched Snape turn pages of his notebook in irritation as though he were flicking away gnats. He sighed heavily, his face hidden once more in the shadow of his own hair.

Feeling his face grow warm, Harry rested his chin on his fist and went back to frowning down at the table of contents, barely reading. Trust Snape to make Harry study silent spell-casting and then refuse to talk about it.

The sudden absence of quill-scratching seemed to crawl over the room; Harry peeked up through his fringe. Snape was studying him. The quill lay trapped in Snape's notebook, resting on the coffee table now; Harry could have sworn he saw the feather flutter with relief.

"What?" Harry mumbled, not as sourly as he would have liked. Unfortunately, whenever Snape's face became unreadable like this, Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease tickle his spine. He gave Snape his best crooked-eyebrows expression, but, as expected, the uneasiness didn't reciprocate.

"Turn to page thirteen."

"How come?"

Snape closed his eyes, only for a second.

Harry sighed on the inside, readjusting his feet underneath his thighs, and began turning the pages carefully, so as not to wrinkle them.

"It's a Roman numeral," Snape continued. A small pause hung in the air, which was hardly a pause at all. "You'll see an 'x'—"

"I know Roman numerals," Harry cut in; he dared to peek up again. Snape was rubbing a thumb against his temple. "An x and three i's, right?"

"Mm." A single almost-nod.

"Stunning spells," Harry read from the heading, once he had reached the correct page.

"Which are…"

"_Petrificus Totalis,_" Harry began, "_Stupefy_… _Incarcerous_—" Harry glanced up. "—though, that's not really a stunning spell."

"It isn't listed."

Harry locked eyes with Snape for a flicker of an instant, and then he went back to reading. "That's it, really," Harry said. "Do you know any others?"

"Which do you suppose," Snape prompted, passing over Harry's question and readjusting his elbow against the arm of the chair, "would be the most ideal spell to use in silent Defense?"

"Out of those three?"

"Two."

Harry thought about this; he'd practiced both _Stupefy_ and _Petrificus Totalis_ on charmed suits of armor last spring, and they both seemed to have the same effect.

"Which one has the most difficult wand movement?" Harry asked, somewhat to himself; he scratched his neck as he pondered. Snape opened his mouth to speak, but then Harry had a new thought. "No," he answered his own question, "hang on…they're nearly the same, aren't they?"

"Considering—"

"Just a flap of the wrist," Harry broke in, ignoring the great _whoosh_ of air that escaped his professor's nostrils; he rubbed at his neck once more before settling his gaze on Snape, whose face had been washed out by the dullest expression in the world. "It's a trick question," Harry decided. "They're both quite useful."

Snape's weight was on his elbow as he pursed his lips; he had stopped blinking. Stopped rubbing his temple. Breathing, perhaps.

"Isn't that right?" Harry posed the question again, a bit more meekly this time.

"Have I got your attention, or do you plan on hypothesizing until bedtime?"

"Oh," Harry muttered. "Sorry…" He lowered his eyes but couldn't help smiling a bit. He'd been right. And Snape knew it. He was the one who had made Harry read a chapter on each spell in _Practical Defense: Volume III_, after all. "I'm listening."

Harry wasn't sure if Snape believed him or not, judging by the way Snape was twisting the button on the cuff of his smart shirt while eyeing Harry as though he were an unidentified mold. Either way, Harry widened his eyes a bit more in an attempt to look genuinely interested.

"Both are equally useful as silent Defensive spells," Snape conceded. "And either is safest to use when one is under attack or in danger." Snape lifted his chin. "Do you know why that is?"

"You can't move when you're stunned until someone reverses the spell."

"That is the case with numerous spells," Snape added. "Think beyond the obvious."

Harry shrugged. "Dunno."

"Yes, you do."

Struggling not to make a face, Harry thought over the effects of a stunning spell, wishing those suits of armor would have provided more of a reaction—Harry's suggestion of having Snape act as a real-life opponent had been less than appreciated. "You can't talk either," Harry concluded at last. "So, if you were stunned from behind, you couldn't quite shout for help."

"As opposed to being stunned from the front…"

Harry did make a face this time—one of confusion—until he realized that Snape was having a grand time poking holes in Harry's theory. "And you can't perform wandless magic, either."

Snape pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Mm."

Vague approval.

Harry gave him a quick half-smile and then closed his book again. "Can we practice stunning, then?"

"No." Snape floated out of his chair and over to the bookshelf. "Not today."

Following Snape's movements with eyes still weary from an extra-long lie-in, Harry felt a wave of disappointment settle over him. "But why?"

"You know what I require."

"But you just summarized the whole chapter for me," Harry argued mildly. "I know all about stunning."

"Read the introduction," Snape instructed, flipping through a book he'd pulled from a high shelf, appearing rather unaware of Harry's discontent. "And from page thirteen until the end of the section. Then, we shall see."

"When, though?" Harry mumbled.

"Put your things away, please." _Snap_. The book closed inches from Snape's nose. Harry watched it drift over to the coffee table. Snape caught sight of Harry, acknowledging him with a twitch of his brow. "Go on."

"I haven't actually looked at this yet," Harry said, picking up another one of Snape's gifts—a small chess set with marble pieces. It wasn't a Wizard's Chess set, like Ron's, where the pieces smashed each other into smithereens, but this one had two drawers with tiny brass knobs underneath either side of the board, in which to store the pieces. The drawers were even lined with green velvet, so as not to knick the marble. "It's nicer than Dudley's. And he doesn't even know how to play—he's busted half the pieces, anyway."

Snape leaned his hip against the edge of his work desk, holding onto the back of his neck, his eyes drawn to the tiny flames licking round the log in the fireplace.

Harry rubbed the pad of his thumb along one of the knobs. "Do you have a headache?"

As though just realizing what he was doing, Snape began straightening his cuffs instead, even though they were perfectly straightened. He gave Harry the same pointed look as before and nodded at his gifts.

Setting his new chess set carefully on the table, Harry gathered up his Sneakoscope, broom repair kit, and other gifts and padded back to his dormitory. He laid everything on his bed, except for the book; this, he placed at the front of the line on a shelf with the rest of his volumes, which he'd squeezed between two round stones that served as bookends.

Snape was sitting in his chair again when Harry returned. The quill feather was wriggling grumpily in Snape's captivity.

Harry slumped onto the sofa, drawing up his knees, watching Snape jot down notes against his own thigh and flip through pages of the book he'd taken from the case. Harry watched until his eyes crossed and grew bored.

"Do you know how to play chess?"

Silence from the armchair.

"Professor?"

"Keep quiet a moment," Snape muttered, grimacing as he scraped his fingertip down the top of a page.

Harry couldn't keep his sigh in this time. It rushed out like the tide.

Snape glanced up as though he were suddenly standing ankle-deep in sea water.

Harry let his head fall back. He frowned at the funny squint that wrinkled Snape's face. But he didn't say anything.

Snape closed both books.

"Stunning practice or one game of chess. Choose quickly."

Harry lifted his head, meaning to answer, but found himself silenced by pure astonishment. He slid from the couch to the rug, sitting back on his heels as he began to arrange the pieces.

Snape did know how to play. They got through three games before Harry was made to swallow another potion—his stomach barely twinged—and to take a shower before dinner—Harry declared his fingernails quite clean. The professor disagreed.

Snape won. Chess games and all.

* * *

Hippogriffs, Hagrid had called them. To Harry, they looked like massive horse-birds with talons and beaks that could injure him in more ways than one.

"Beau'iful, aren' they?" Hagrid had said wistfully, as he and Harry had watched the herd of hippogriffs paw the grass behind Hagrid's hut and gnaw through piles of dead blackbirds.

Harry supposed they were, in a way. Their eyes were as orange as Hagrid's pumpkins, and that, alone, was wicked. But he figured he would have appreciated them a bit more had he witnessed them flying in from Ireland three days ago while standing with Hagrid on top of the Astronomy Tower. Harry didn't have the heart to give Hagrid the bad news about his cake. A stomach ache was a stomach ache; didn't matter where it came from. Hagrid had bought it.

The sun was high in the sky now, shining white behind the clouds. Harry sat on the top step at the back of Hagrid's hut, with Fang's head resting on his lap, craning his neck and shielding his eyes with both hands as he gazed up into the gray-blue sky that seemed to hang low over the cool August morning. Mid-morning, actually.

Almost-noon. Lunchtime.

Harry craned his head over his shoulder now, looking for any sign of Hagrid's wiry head peeking up over the hill. Hagrid had taken the hippogriffs to rest in the courtyard behind the castle, seeing as it was empty and more sun spilled out from the clouds there, warming the grass considerably.

All of a sudden, Fang lifted his head from Harry's lap, his ears perked, his moist eyes round as they twitched this way and that before settling on one of the trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Harry removed his hand from where it rested against Fang's wrinkled neck and peered off in the same direction. After a moment, the sun slid behind the clouds, and Harry saw it.

A black dog—even larger than Fang—was sitting on its haunches behind a vine-wrapped tree. Even in the shadows cast by the leafy blanket overhead, Harry immediately recognized the soft gray eyes that somehow stood out from the black mass of fur.

Fang whined deep in his throat and the black dog seemed to back up ever so slightly.

"Hush, Fang," Harry whispered, giving Fang a scratch between his ears. "It's all right." But Harry sat very still, hardly breathing.

This couldn't be the same dog he had seen in London.

But it was. Didn't matter that they were in Scotland now. He and the animal continued to stare at each other.

Eventually, Hagrid's voice drifted from over the hill, followed by a high-pitched whistle. Jerking out of his daze, Fang trotted away, leaving a wet patch of slobber on Harry's jeans. When Harry turned back towards the forest, he expected the dog to be gone, but there it sat.

Stiffly, Harry pushed himself up from the step. Sparing one more quick glance round his shoulder, he took a few steps forward, broken pinecones crunching under his trainers. Feeling a bit stupid, Harry held out his hand, palm up, the same way he had in Diagon Alley.

This time, though, the dog stepped forward a bit and then stopped, hesitating. It sat on its haunches again.

Harry had never been very fond of dogs, seeing as Aunt Marge's ankle-biting yapper was the only animal, aside from Fang, with which he'd made acquaintance. So, when Harry found himself standing in the forest, yards away from the most peculiar stray dog he'd ever seen, he surprised even himself.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest, little fists banging on his ribcage, begging him to turn tail and sprint away before he lost a limb.

Each heartbeat was a warning from Snape: _get out get out get out_. . .

A wild animal in the Forbidden Forest. Perhaps Snape's message was _you're dead you're dead you're dead_. . .

The gray eyes blinked.

Harry's legs bent of their own accord as he squatted down. "'Lo," he croaked.

The matted paws inched forward.

"Are you lost?"

A nose, cold and wet, touched Harry's knuckles.

"It's all right," Harry added. "I won't hurt you." Harry held his breath, waiting for the dog to either lick his hand or eat it clean off. But the black nose only nudged him again; the dog dipped its head, allowing Harry to stroke the top of it. It didn't bark or even drool. "I've seen you before, haven't I?"

Harry scooted forward on his toes, scratching his fingers down the dog's soft neck. "Are you hungry? My friend Hagrid'll feed you."

The dog took a step back, leaving Harry's arm hovering in mid-air; its eyes remained soft, though. Alert.

"Harry?" Hagrid's voice boomed from behind the pumpkins patch. Still out of eyeshot. "C'mon, now!"

"I have to go," Harry whispered. "But I can come back."

The dog nudged Harry's kneecap with its head. Harry gave it a good scratch, the way he did with Fang. "I can come only come in this far, though," Harry explained quickly.

_You can't you can't you can't…_

Hagrid called for him again, sounding as though he were on the far side of the hut now.

Harry jerked up straight, gave the dog a parting glance, and walked as quietly as he could through the dried leaves and dead sticks that littered the floor of the Forbidden Forest.

He appeared at the front steps an instant later. "Sorry," Harry called, once Hagrid came into view. "I was tying my shoes."

_Idiot_, Harry thought as he glanced down at his trainers. The strings hung loose.

But Hagrid didn't seem to notice; grinning, he patted Harry's shoulder and lumbered alongside him as they made their way back to the castle.

"What are the hippogriffs used for?" Harry managed to ask. It was someone else's voice that came out of his throat.

Hagrid's grin stretched across his face. "Secret."

Harry nodded, staring straight ahead.

* * *

As Snape advanced toward Harry from his side of the second floor corridor, he could have been an eagle with that cloak flapping behind him. "You're flourishing your wand like a toddler."

"Toddlers don't use wands…"

"Close your mouth and concentrate," Snape chided, cupping Harry's chin in his palm, so that Harry had no choice but to blink up into his professor's flaring nostrils. "Do you hear me?"

"I'm trying," Harry lied, but he immediately regretted it. The same stormy cloud descended over the whites of Snape's eyes at the exact moment the icy fog ascended in Harry's stomach. "Well, maybe not that time," he amended quickly.

Snape lifted Harry's chin a bit more, lowering his own.

"All right, all right," Harry muttered, looking anywhere but those angry nostrils. "I'll concentrate." He tried to move his face away, but Snape held on.

Today marked the first afternoon of Harry's silent Defense lessons. And after an hour of achieving nothing but getting tiny sparks to fly from his holly wand, Harry wasn't the least bit surprised by Snape's impatience.

Crouching down slowly, as though on a rusty hotel lift, Snape had Harry at eye-level.

Harry hated when Snape did this. He blinked around for as long as he dared before drawing his eyes away from Snape's black robes to Snape's even blacker stare.

"I said I'd try," Harry reaffirmed his commitment.

Snape's mouth wrinkled around the edges.

"I will." Even his voice was ashamed, downgrading itself to a pathetic whisper. "I—_oy_…"

Without warning, Snape's face became a blur as Harry felt a firm grip around his biceps lifting him until his toes dangled, depositing him on the coldest place on earth: the stone window sill.

_This is summer_, Harry thought, squirming almost immediately. No stone ledge _inside _a castle should freeze a person's bum on contact.

Snape made a cage of himself, pressing the heels of his hands on either side of where Harry sat. His eyebrows contorted and then he waited.

_We will remain here for as long as it takes to get your temper under control_, Snape's voice chanted in Harry's memory. That was usually the case, whenever Snape decided to preserve Harry on ice for a few moments. This time, however, Harry didn't feel heated in the least. Not even lukewarm.

He was as cool as a soggy dish sponge.

"In what game are we engaging, young man?"

Harry swallowed away the whisper in his voice. "None," he answered dully. "I'm sorry. I'll do better."

"This is complex magic," Snape replied. "I do not expect perfection, but I do expect effort. You are giving me neither."

That was certainly a jagged pill to swallow. A glass shard.

"You were begging for a lesson in Stunning hardly two days ago."

"I know…"

Snape dropped his hands from the ledge. "Then explain."

Wetting his lips, Harry opened his mouth as the words tumbled around in the back of his throat, but he closed it just as quickly. He shrugged.

"Your shrugging—"

"Tells you nothing," Harry finished for him. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Insincerity makes me ill, Mr. Potter."

"It's not." Harry wisely directed his argument to legs of his trousers.

"Babbled apologies, likewise."

Harry's eyes traveled over Snape's shoulder to the gentle breeze weaving through the cluster of forest leaves waving to him from the window. He bit back another apology; he couldn't help it—it was burbling on his tongue like one of Neville's clotted potions. Among other things.

This afternoon would make the third time Harry would be visiting the black dog. And the second promise he'd made to return—this time with food.

He had been able to get away for a few moments yesterday, during the time he'd trudged after Snape to the greenhouse. Finding the brineroot plants seriously picked through, Harry had offered to run to Hagrid's to borrow a clump from his garden.

Harry had found the dog exactly where he had left it the day before, lying on its belly, almost as if it had been waiting. Harry had known he would find it there.

But Snape didn't.

That was the other thing wiggling around on Harry's tongue that desperately wanted to be spat out, like a lima bean. Snape wouldn't so much mind that Harry had found the dog; Snape knew about that dog anyhow. But without being told, Harry knew that Snape would mind _where_ Harry found it.

He would more than mind.

"Harry," Snape said quietly, his hands planted on the sill again, "out with it."

Harry focused on Snape's chin now. "I didn't know silent magic would be so difficult, I guess." The words left a foul taste in his mouth, but he wasn't exactly lying. "Bit frustrating."

"And nothing more."

Harry blinked. Twice. "No, sir."

Snape's Adam's apple bobbed. "Very well."

Harry didn't even have the heart for one last squirm on the cold seat.

"You've done enough practicing for one day," Snape told him; his hand found its way onto the base of Harry's neck, urging Harry to slide of the sill and land flat-footed on his trainers. "Go on to the library. The headmaster is coming for tea at three o'clock. I'll expect you then."

Dropping his hand from Harry's neck, Snape turned.

"I haven't signed the book…" Harry trailed off.

Snape kept walking. "Never mind that."

Harry leaned his head against the wall, his hands worming their way into his jeans pockets.

Through the window, in the distance, the forest seemed to shiver in the wind.

TBC…

* * *

**Author's Note**: What can I say... Christmas break rules. Thanks for all of your reviews and messages over the past couple of months-blown away by how many people have stuck around! I so appreciate it; more than I can say, really. And thanks, always, to my good friend Tabitha for her constant encouragement. Another chapter of this story will be out soon. Hope you're still enjoying! :-)


	17. An Early Night

**Story Notes****: I do believe this is the longest chapter of this story I have ever written. Good news is, I'm not expecting this to "last" for a while...summer is almost here! And I shall be finishing this story over the next few months. :-)**

* * *

**Chapter 17: An Early Night**

Harry stood in the middle of the Owlery floor, crunching bits of hay and bird droppings beneath his trainers, and absently stroking the soft spot between Hedwig's eyes.

The breeze was warm this afternoon, and it blew the hay and dust in a whirlwind around Harry's feet, sticking it to his jeans. It had been some time since Harry was able to visit Hedwig, so the dirt hardly mattered. He wasn't paying attention to the mess at his feet anyway.

Harry's tea-with-Dumbledore had been about as eventful as tea with one moody professor and a nearly-silent headmaster could get: the tea had tasted like toilet water, even with three lumps of sugar, Professor McGonagall, returning from her holiday, had bustled through the Great Hall, as tight-lipped as always (making Snape even moodier), and every time Harry had asked a question about Sirius Black or Azkaban or criminals in general, he'd gotten a sideways _look_ from Snape that was somewhere between a squint and a glare. A look that told Harry that Neville Longbottom probably asked better questions.

Then again, Neville asked no questions.

Maybe that's what Snape wanted.

A breath of cool air drifted through the open door of the Owlery, rustling the downy feathers on Hedwig's back. Harry combed them back into place with his fingertips. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Harry broke off the corner of a scone and treated Hedwig, smiling a bit as she hooted softly into his palm.

The four-o'clock bell chimed in its tower.

From where Harry stood, he could just see the top of the Astronomy Tower through the gaping brick window. The sky was white-gray and overcast—still light—and Snape had said he would be back before it got dark.

_It's hardly any of your concern, is it_? Snape had replied woodenly when Harry had asked him where he was going.

_You remember what I said_.

Harry remembered. He thought it was right stupid—not asking questions—and he didn't like it, but he hadn't forgotten.

Snape had also told Harry he could visit the Owlery until half past four, as if the trek there and back acted as a sort of consolation for Snape's being a git. Or for making Harry drink toilet tea.

Either way, his professor wasn't so good at compensating.

But a tiny compartment of his heart told Harry that he probably deserved having to deal with Snape's silence; after all, he'd clammed up as well. Not to mention, ge had completely mucked up his lesson in stunning spells today.

Kicking bits of hay out of his way as he dragged his feet to the other wall, Harry leaned over the ledge of the opposite window—the one that faced the Forbidden Forest—and let the wind tousle his fringe.

He thought of Ron and wondered if the wind felt this good in Egypt. Probably loads hotter. And spicy-smelling, like cinnamon or hot peppers… or both.

A strong wind shook the distant leaves. It didn't smell spicy at all; it smelt of dirt. And rain.

Would a thunderstorm soak the forest floor, or would the leaves act as an umbrella? Harry had only been there once, not counting yesterday, and it hadn't been raining then.

In the midst of all his thinking, Harry realized that he'd been chewing on his fingernails. Snape hated that—said it made Harry look like a mangy cat, cleaning its paws. Or maybe it was a woodchuck. Harry glanced down at his shortened nails. He resumed his nibbling as his eyes scanned the forest. Glancing back at Hedwig (who, ironically, was pecking at one of her claws) kept Harry's eyes in check for a brief moment. But soon enough, his attention was drawn back to the corner of the forest near Hagrid's hut.

The one place Harry knew he shouldn't look.

His other hand remained in his jacket pocket, pressing scone crumbs between his fingers.

Harry wouldn't even have to go into the forest this time, he had decided: just toss the pastry in from the edge. If the dog was as clever as Harry thought, it would find the food in no time.

And then Harry would tell Hagrid about what he had seen, leaving out the part about the scone, of course. Hagrid would feed the black dog.

With all the raw steak Hagrid fed his bloodhound, Fang hardly touched his kibble anyway.

* * *

Thunder rumbled in the distance, drowning out the nerve-splitting tap of a thick yellow fingernail on a half-empty glass.

The tapping returned to Severus' ears, more insistent. He directed an unimpressed scowl across the table.

"Well?" The redheaded man slurped his ale, sloshed it around his teeth as he waited for Severus to speak. He swallowed noisily, choking a bit.

"Not a trace of it."

A phlegm-filled cough. "Not even a bit of a twinge?"

"Nothing."

"Could've sworn the other day my whole forearm was burnin' right fiercely—"

"_Nothing_, Gibbon," Severus ground out between clenched teeth, his eyes reflecting the fire that flickered over both of their heads off the wick of a hanging candle. "Nothing."

The corner booth was murky, save for the square of daylight coming through the open window of the Hogshead Pub and the single-flame chandelier that swung between them whenever a breeze sliced a path through the sooty air of the pub. In the absence of light, Severus could hardly see the film of filth that covered the surface of the table he shared with the Irishman. He could feel it however.

Just as he could feel the silent anxiety that gripped the shoulders of Doherty Gibbon like a painful embrace—the same fear that had clouded the sharp blue eyes when Severus had come face-to-face with the man eleven years ago on a cobblestone street in the small Irish village that now held Hadrian's Elixirs. Nearly two years after the defeat of the Dark Lord. The apothecary… the alias—nothing but an escape plan for the man who taken the Mark on the same night as Severus had. But now, there was something beyond the apprehension that flashed in the blue eyes at the mention of his Dark Mark burning, something Severus hadn't seen on the afternoon he had demanded answers from Gibbon behind the curtain that concealed _Hadrian's_ laboratory.

Something akin to hunger. Hope.

Severus pushed away his half-drunk tumbler of bourbon and forced his features slack. "You traveled here from Foreglen to tell me this…"

"Thought you, of all people, would like t' know, Sev'rus." Gibbon drank deeply from his glass of dark ale, his eyes darting toward the noises coming from behind the counter. Beads of perspiration stood out on his red forehead.

"And you, of all people, should realize that I require no telling of such things. I will always be the first to know."

Gibbon drained his glass, licked his lips. He blinked in flutters, tapping the sticky table with his thumbs. "Got your boy under lock and key now, have you?" Gibbon muttered, changing the subject. "Now that Black's been spotted round 'ere."

Severus blinked. "Another rumor," he returned, forcing his tone into one of dismissal. "The Daily Prophet reporters flock to those with little credibility: short-witted imbeciles who see what they wish to see. Never mind that," Severus scoffed. "Keep to your… personal inquiries, Gibbon, as those contacts are most important. I have spoken with Lucius Malfoy—he, too, has heard nothing."

"Or felt?"

"Quiet."

Both pairs of eyes flicked toward the bartender, Aberforth, who looked no more interested in their conversation than in the dusty tumblers he was wiping.

Severus eyed Gibbon's flushed face with disdain. "Subtlety, you fool," he muttered through stiff lips. "Master it before you contact me again—next time with news worth hearing." He pressed a galleon onto the table, leaving Doherty Gibbon alone with his drink.

* * *

"You could always collect it if it's still there in a bit, you know—bring it back to me." Harry peered down at the pastry that sat at the edge of the forest, untouched. Rain spattered his arms and flecked his glasses, but he didn't quite care about that; he was waterproof, after all. Bread wasn't.

Harry's fringe danced around his forehead as much as the leaves shook on the trees. He pushed his hair back and held it there, safe from the wind. Hedwig swooped around trees and landed on Harry's forearm. "That way," he continued to talk to his owl, "I'd know the dog wasn't there anymore. Wouldn't have to carry on." Harry dragged his knuckles under Hedwig's chin. "You know?"

She blinked at him—once.

"You might eat it yourself, though," Harry said thoughtfully, still petting. "Be a bit pointless, then, wouldn't it—ouch!" Harry shifted Hedwig to his other arm and sucked on the side of his finger where he'd just been nipped.

Another wide-eyed blink.

Her claws dug in as she launched off of Harry's arm, arching gracefully through the branches despite the rain that was now dripping down Harry's cheeks. Diving low, Hedwig caught the scone in her feet and flew deeper into the blackness of the forest.

Harry took a step forward and then hesitated, his heart pounding in his ears with feverish thuds. He glanced back toward the castle; thick storm clouds hovered between the gables. The half-hour wouldn't chime for a long while, and when it did, Harry would be running through the Entrance Hall anyway.

Pushing his damp hair away from his eyes, Harry glanced over his shoulder at Hagrid's empty hut—and then once more toward the castle. Hedwig hooted from somewhere close by as Harry walked into the forest.

He had only gone a short way when he spotted Hedwig perched on a low branch, the captured food resting next to her. Harry held out his arm. "Just leave it there," he called, nodding toward the scone. "I was only joking. Come on."

A low hoot was the only response. Crumbs fell from the tree as Hedwig clutched the bread in her claws and flew in even deeper.

"Wait," Harry groaned. "_Hedwig_…"

Rain smacked against the blanket of leaves overhead but Harry hardly felt a drop of it. Thunder surrounded him, as though he were in a drum. His eyes adjusted in the cool darkness as he kept moving.

A minute later, Harry spotted a blur of white zipping behind a large tree trunk in the distance. Something hit the ground and tumbled a few feet.

Relieved, Harry trotted forward, working up a few choice words for his owl.

Another blur of white flashed from behind the tree.

Harry's trainers skidded in the dirt, catching him just before he fell backwards. His entire body broke out in gooseflesh. He suddenly became very aware of the rain on his face, the water trickling down his glasses.

An arm had reached out—a torso hardly thicker than the arm. But that wasn't what had Harry's feet frozen to the ground. It was the face that followed.

The dark-ringed eyes—hollowed, but wide with shock—held his own. The black hair hung on the white shoulders like a soiled curtain.

Neither of them moved for a long moment. And then, without warning, the blood rushed back into Harry's legs, his arms, his fingertips—the sensation was almost painful. He heard himself making panicked noises that didn't sound like his voice as he jerked his shirt up and scrambled for his wand with wet, shaking fingers.

"Wait—" The voice was dusty; the words hardly croaked.

Harry saw the movement in his peripheral vision, heard the snapping of twigs, but he forced his mind and hands to focus on retrieving the wand from his front pocket.

He'd jerked too hard; the stick slipped from his cold fingers, rolling in the dirt. Harry lunged for it.

"Wait!" The voice rasped again. "Harry—"

"_Stupefy_!"

A third flash of white, landing on the forest floor with a sickening thud.

Harry grasped his wand in a gray-knuckled fist, his whole arm trembling as he gaped in horror at Hedwig lying sprawled and petrified near Sirius Black's feet.

Another strange sound came from Harry's throat, somewhere between a dry sob and a laugh—a sound so stupid that Harry was almost certain he was in the midst of waking up from a nightmare. His hands were dead limbs again.

Black remained half-crouched, frozen in place, his arms outstretched, his fingers spread. His eyes dashed from Harry to the owl on the ground. "Is she yours?"

Harry clutched his fringe in a fist; he shook his head, afraid Hedwig might be finished off.

"No?" The voice was grainy, but the question was gentle, human.

Harry stared at Black, who hadn't moved from his position; he could feel his heart pounding in his forehead, his lips.

Black shifted his feet the tiniest bit, no more than a breath of a movement; his eyes followed Harry's wand. "I am completely unarmed," he croaked. "No wand—not even a pocket knife." Black lifted his hands higher as proof. The voice that drifted from the sunken face didn't seem to belong to it. "I'm not going to hurt you. I promise you that."

Harry's head spun. This man was a murderer. Had slaughtered a dozen people; wasn't that what the article said? Snape?

"How do you know my name?" Harry managed through a dry throat. "No—" His fingers twisted round the wand. "—don't move."

"Not a toe." Black promised, shaking his head. He wetted his lips, twitched his nose—more movements that didn't belong to such a face, somehow—such papery skin. "I knew your dad before he died," Black explained. "My best mate. Did you know that?"

Harry didn't say anything. His brain had gone numb.

The deadness lifted its veil from Black's eyes for a flicker of an instant. "You look like him. You always did."

Suddenly realizing his wand arm had gone slack, Harry shook the cobwebs out of his head and tightened his grip. He couldn't stop his trembling, however. Even his trousers were shaking.

"You know who I am, then?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue had become a dried prune. He felt his head jerk in a single nod.

"Your aunt and uncle told you?" Black continued. And then, almost to himself, he rationalized, "Or the papers? Both, probably. Yeah?"

_Aunt and uncle?_ _Papers_?

Nothing was making sense. The leaves waving overhead, the rain soaking his hair—none of it seemed real. Colors were bursting in Harry's eyes. He felt his body squat down; his palms felt the sharpness of dried leaves and sticks. He couldn't remember a single spell.

_Sirius Black isn't a game, Harry_, Snape's voice rang out like a peculiar lullaby in Harry's ears, a hologram of his face swimming among the sparks and colors.

Harry blinked hard, but the colors only became worse. A voice floated overhead. Harry felt pressure on his neck… on his hands. Snape's hands?

He was in bed, then. It had to be a nightmare. It _was_ a nightmare.

"…you hear me?"

The voice was an echo. Harry's brain grasped at the sound like a rope pulling him out of the ocean. A lifeline.

"…all right?"

_No_, Harry thought. _I'm not. You were right again._

* * *

The thunder had stopped, but the wind still howled.

The soles of Harry's shoes slapped against the sodden grass; his jeans were soaked. All of him was soaked. The castle loomed up ahead; it seemed an hour before Harry would get there. The sky was deep gray and purple now, muddy from the storm clouds—Snape would most definitely be back by now.

Harry's brain was still spinning, his thoughts so jumbled that he nearly bumped his nose into the door of the Entrance Hall; he had made it to the castle without realizing it. Harry leaned against the handle and caught his breath for a moment, pushing his hands into his wet pockets to stop them from trembling. Ever since his dizzy spell had passed, Harry hadn't been able to stop shivering.

A minute passed.

Maybe two.

Still, his brain couldn't seem to piece together the dream-like bits of the last half-hour. Surely, he was hallucinating. Had fallen down the Owlery steps and bumped his head.

Maybe the afternoon tea really had come from the toilet…and now, Harry was reaping its effect.

He pulled off his glasses and screwed his knuckles against his eyes. He blinked and looked around once he could see again.

Yes, he was definitely still outside of the castle.

_I haven't stepped foot in there for over a decade_, Sirius had said, gazing out between the trees as if he could see the castle in the darkness.

Sirius. Harry was supposed to call him that.

_Your dad called me Padfoot—sometimes, anyway._

It wasn't yet seven o'clock, but the lanterns mounted on either side of the staircase leading down to the Dungeons were fully lit. One by one, the people in each portrait turned their heads, like falling dominoes, to watch Harry tiptoe down the stairs, his trainers squeaking on every step; a trail of wet footprints glittered in the lantern light behind him.

_This is your friend in the picture?_ Sirius had inquired of Harry with genuine astonishment as he'd held the crumpled bit of newspaper under a giant leaf so he could show it to Harry without getting the ink wet. _You can see how the rat is missing a toe, can't you_…

An identical, smoother picture of Ron and his family in Egypt still hung on the wall behind Harry's bed.

His bed which was only a few sharp turns and a long corridor trek away.

Harry's skin broke out in a fresh layer of goosebumps—usually the tell-tale sign that he was walking through the Dungeons. But this time, the prickly feeling in his arms and legs had nothing to do with the cold.

The door to Snape's chambers was locked, as it always was. Peeling his shirt away from his skin, Harry reached for his wand to tap the incantation, but before he could even slip it out of his waistband, the door clicked open.

Harry whipped around; beads of rain trickled from his hair down the back of his neck as he gaped up at someone three heads taller and equally as storm-soaked.

If it weren't for the dots of illumination on the wall, Harry might have been staring up at a stack of man-sized seaweed. Black hair sticking to his pale face... Black smart shirt clinging like an extra skin... Snape looked positively horrid when caught in the rain.

Horrid and very unhappy.

Unconsciously, Harry began smoothing the hair way from his own face, as if Snape might not notice. His efforts were futile, however, as a tiny puddle of water was already forming around his trainers. If Harry's thoughts were disconnected before, it didn't compare to the way they were overlapping each other at that very moment—piled onto one another, fighting for breath. Harry wasn't sure which condition was worse.

Snape stared at him, unblinking, for a moment longer.

Harry tugged at his t-shirt.

"Where have you been?" The words came out slowly, deliberately stretched as if they were thrown into a taffy pull.

Harry left his shirt alone, choosing to study Snape's shoes instead. "I got caught in the rain," Harry half-fibbed. "I didn't mean to."

_I didn't mean to frighten you_, Sirius had promised, once Harry had felt well enough to stand again. _I look an awful sight, I'm sure. I haven't seen my reflection in years._

Harry found himself blinking centimeters away from Snape's nose, his chin held up by three long fingers.

"You spent over two hours visiting your owl?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak but ended up closing it just as quickly, swallowing deeply instead.

"I asked you a question," Snape said in a voice of deceptive calm—one Harry recognized all-too well. "_Where_ have you been?"

Attempting to wet his lips, Harry shifted his chin against Snape's grasp.

"Hagrid's?"

"No."

"Hm?" Snape's nostrils flared to a dangerous circumference.

"No, sir," Harry said more clearly.

"The Quidditch pitch, then?"

_You play Quidditch like your dad did? He was better than I was._

Snape added a thumb to his chin-hold.

"I didn't go there," Harry mumbled, finding it just as difficult to look at the specks of rain on Snape's nose as it was to stare straight into those black pits Snape claimed as eyes.

"Look at me."

Black pits it was.

The creases in Snape's face stood out in an almost bewildered way; his frown scanned Harry from glasses to trainers, and back to the glasses. "What's happened?"

_What's happened can't be changed_, Sirius had explained sadly. _And I'll more than understand if you'd rather not help me._

"Huh?" Harry blinked his eyes at an even closer view of Snape's nose. Part of him wished to tell Snape so badly that his throat ached. Another part of him realized how bizarre his story sounded—finding Sirius Black in the Forbidden Forest instead of the dog he had been feeding; a Sirius Black who hadn't killed him on the spot. But a larger part of Harry—the brightest part—understood that if he were having a hard time believing what had just happened, Snape certainly wouldn't.

Snape straightened slowly from his crouch like an old man with a bad back. He lifted his wand to dry Harry's clothes.

Harry hadn't even realized he was clenching his teeth against the cold until he felt his jaw relax.

"Go inside and take a hot shower," Snape ordered, still frowning down at Harry as though he were the one with seaweed for hair. "Get into your pajamas and then come into my chambers. We are far overdue for a very long discussion, young man."

"I'm—I'm warm," Harry heard himself mutter, "now that you dried me."

Using one arm to push open the door and the other to steer Harry, Snape leaned down again and nodded toward the room. "Immediately," he enunciated so proficiently that Harry could see Snape's molars.

Which was never a good thing.

Harry slipped through the crack in the door, silently toed off his muddy trainers by the hearth, and even began pulling off his t-shirt as he made his way toward the bathroom. He could feel Snape watching him all the way through the common room, even though he knew Snape couldn't see _him_.

It wasn't until Harry was standing under the hot water that the fuzziness in his head was replaced with the heaviness of his heart. He felt like crying, but he knew he wouldn't. People don't just sneak around, telling horrible lies, and then go off and cry about it.

But it was more than just the lying. Harry had spent nearly two hours getting drenched by the rain alongside the very man he was supposed to be avoiding at all costs.

If only Harry had been accurate with his Stunning spell, then he wouldn't have known that a man like Sirius Black was capable of showing Harry how to reverse the spell to save his owl.

But what if he hadn't missed.

The water had turned cooler, and Harry had forgotten to use shampoo, but he stepped out of the shower anyway, his stomach lurching the whole time he toweled off.

As he wandered back into the darkness of his dormitory, Harry waited for a stroke of brilliance to come crashing over him while he climbed into his pajama bottoms and pulled on a fresh t-shirt and a pair of socks.

Nothing.

The sitting room of Snape's chambers glowed in the distance.

Shuffling his feet through the common room, Harry took an extra few seconds to clean his glasses on his t-shirt before entering.

Snape was sitting straight as a clothespin in his favorite armchair; his eyes dragged over from the fire and settled on Harry. Something in his face had changed, something Harry hadn't seen in a long time.

Harry no longer felt like crying; he felt like running.

A single nod toward the sofa.

The sound of Harry's socks swishing against the rug was abnormally loud, as was the creaking of the leather cushion as he sat, watching Snape as carefully as his professor had been watching him earlier.

Snape continued to stare at him.

Harry's toes didn't hang above the carpet now; he could almost rest them flat—strange time to notice that. Couldn't look at much else.

"Anything you wish to tell me?"

More creaking of the sofa.

"Get those away from your mouth; you look like an animal."

Harry sat on his hands.

"Nothing?"

_No, not nothing_, Harry's brain screamed at him. _Everything. Anything and everything._

He shook his head.

A long moment passed, and then Snape stood, his own chair creaking louder than Harry's cushion. Harry dug his toes into the carpet, eyeing Snape warily, knowing exactly where he was heading. Snape's discussions usually involved nothing but discussing—arguing, sometimes—but with the way Snape's eyes were narrowed…

Snape was in his office, moving toward his desk.

The drawer that held…

The bookshelf? Not the drawer.

Snape closed his office door, carrying a thick volume underneath his arm. Did he keep a spare one inside?

_Slap_.

Harry flinched as the book landed on the table in front of his kneecaps, instantly flipping through about a third of the pages. He looked up at Snape in confusion.

"Entry number six on page 274," Snape said thinly. "Read it."

Scooting forward, Harry scanned the page; a slow flush crept up Harry's body, starting with his toes. "It's a di—"

"Dictionary," Snape supplied. "Standard Oxford. You've seen it before in primary school. And you certainly know how to read, so do just that. Now."

Harry stared at the words, his pride wounded. "I get it," he croaked. "I don't have to read it."

"Oh, you do," Snape said sternly, jerking the chair closer to the backs of his knees and sitting so that he was eye level with Harry. "I am not asking you to dazzle us with your recitation skills. I am telling you." He pointed directly to the text he wished for Harry to read.

"I won't," Harry said shakily. He gritted his teeth and stared straight into Snape's eyes; the black pits could swallow him up for all he cared. He could feel tears of frustration and embarrassment gathering at the corners of his own eyes, but Harry didn't care. He could stare, too—just as long as Snape.

Snape closed the book. A vein pulsed in his throat.

"While you were showering, Argus Filch entertained me with a shocking report of your whereabouts this afternoon," Snape said quietly. "He saw you enter, saw you leave. Where, do you suppose?"

Harry swallowed several times. It was useless to lie anymore. Snape knew. Harry lost the staring contest. "The forest."

"The _Forbidden_ Forest."

More swallows. "Yes, sir."

"You knew what that word indicated when you were eleven, even when you were twelve," Snape continued more severely. "Are you exempt from the rules of this school now that you are thirteen?"

Harry shook his head.

"Hm?"

"No, sir."

"You're not denying where you have been, then."

Harry forced himself to look up; he swiped angrily at the tears that escaped down his cheeks. "No, sir."

Scraping his chair even closer, so that his knees almost bumped into Harry's, Snape gripped Harry around the shoulders. "_Why_?" he growled, giving Harry a little shake. "Why would you do such a thing?"

Harry shook his head miserably. "I'm sorry."

"I _do not_ care." Two more shakes. "Not this time. Now, why did you go into that forest?"

Two more tears raced down his cheeks and into his ear canals; Harry glared at Snape, feeling anger he couldn't explain. He wanted the black pits to read his mind, not to look heavy and disappointed.

"Why can't you tell me truth?"

_Once the Ministry knows the truth, they will go searching for the real murderer—I just know it._

Harry tried his own pleading look.

It didn't work. Snape's lips went gray again.

He kept his grip on Harry's shoulders, depositing him over his knee. "This has been long overdue as well."

Harry's toes skimmed the ground now, and he vaguely realized that it had been three-quarters of a year since he had found himself in this position. That, alone, hurt.

"You may be thirteen, Harry, but you do _not_ get to decide what puts you in danger," Snape lectured as he cleared away all obstructions protecting the target of his rage. "I will _not_ have it. I never have. And the sooner you learn this, the sooner this stops."

Neither of them made a sound for the first half-minute's worth of bare-handed smacks, but, just as the last time, Harry was the first to crack.

"You are never exempt. Never. Do you understand?"

Harry choked out a jumbled apology. Whenever he thought back to the memory of _this_, he always swore that the humiliation—the degradation—was the worst part. Nothing so ridiculous and babyish could hurt this much, could slice into his soul and make him sorry for every wrongdoing he had ever committed. But just like over half a year ago, it did.

And Snape was still going strong. "Forbidden means forbidden."

More wailing.

"Is that clear?"

The blood had rushed to Harry's head, but he tried to nod all the same. Soon after, Harry was back on his feet, standing on shaky legs with his pajama trousers twisted round his waist, but returned to him, at least. He felt himself guided to his recovery place—the sofa—but Harry shook his head, still hiccoughing through his tears, and walked toward the common room, back to his dormitory.

Snape didn't follow him, and Harry was glad. The spanking hadn't eased any of his guilt in the least; he felt even more wretched than before. He didn't want to see anybody ever again.

Nothing ever went the way Harry wished it would, however.

An hour later, or maybe two—Harry was hardly keeping track—he heard the knock. The tears had gone, along with most of the stinging, but Harry wasn't getting out of bed for anything. Tough luck he hadn't accidentally Stunned himself this afternoon. That would have solved everyone's problems.

The door opened without his permission; Harry knew it would.

The lanterns on the walls seemed far too cheerful as they came to life, even though the room remained mostly dim.

Harry felt the mattress dip. He moved his legs over to the far side of the bed, but otherwise, he didn't acknowledge the second body in the room.

"You should know by now that silence only breeds something much worse."

There was no anger in the words this time—not even a hint of warning—but Harry didn't know what to say, so he settled for studying the numbers on his bedside clock instead.

"At your age, I expect your pride is smarting a good deal more than your backside," Snape went on in the same even tone, as though he had expected Harry to ignore him. "But your earlier silence had nothing to do with your pride."

Snape let the words hover for a while. Harry's back heaved with a sigh, even though he didn't want it to.

"I am not sorry for punishing you," Snape said resolutely. "You know very well you had that coming. However…"

The numbers on the clock blurred out of focus as Harry turned his chin slightly. He was listening now.

"I find your behavior this afternoon out of character, even for you. Sneaking out-of-bounds… you know far better than that."

Harry felt himself flush all over again.

"And then the lying…" Snape must have felt Harry shift, because he continued, "Oh, yes, Harry. Silence of that sort is akin to bold-faced lying. And, again, you know better. But your silence doesn't anger me; it concerns me."

Harry eased onto his back to find Snape perched on the end of his bed; he had discarded his smart shirt for a more casual one; he hadn't bothered to tuck in the tails. Snape wasn't joking—his eyes _had_ lost their angry gleam; he just looked very tired…and much less like his professor self.

"I hate lying," Harry finally mumbled; his voice sounded deep and gravelly from all the choking he'd done, on his own tears. He focused hard on the maroon canopy hanging over his bed, but he could still sense Snape's nod.

"I know you do."

Harry propped his head up with a forearm behind it; he swallowed, praying to every god he'd ever known existed that he wouldn't go all watery again.

"You are, without a doubt, the worst liar I have ever come across, Potter."

The familiar line was strangely comforting.

"One of your better attributes…"

Harry's chest heaved with a sigh this time. Harry felt Snape's hand squeeze his kneecap.

"You have taken your medicine." Snape kept his gaze straight ahead, but his hand remained on Harry's knee. "It's time to tell me, Harry."

Harry pushed himself up, his face very close to Snape's shoulder. He sat quietly for a moment, working up the nerve for what he said next: "You have to let me tell you, though. You can't go mental, okay?"

"Mental…"

"You're going to anyway, but please don't," Harry begged.

"Such optimism…"

Shifting back towards his pile of pillows, Harry sat on his hands to keep from chewing his nails.

Snape noticed.

"Swear it," Harry prompted.

"I swear nothing."

Harry took out his animalistic instincts on his bottom lip instead. And then he told Snape everything—the black dog (what Sirius called an Ani-something) and how Harry thought he had been feeding _that_ instead of a convicted criminal, the picture of the rat, Stunning (an un-Stunning) Hedwig, the promise Harry had made…

By the end of it, Harry was sitting cross-legged and clutching a pillow to his stomach.

Snape appeared as placid as Albus Dumbledore on a summer picnic, except for the slow, deep breaths that lifted his shoulders and dropped them, lifted and dropped…

"I wanted to tell you," Harry said after a bit of silence passed. He wasn't sure if he felt better or not. "I just… I dunno… I didn't know how to explain it." _And I thought you would hate me._

"Where is he now?" Snape's shoulders picked up speed.

"Er… still there, I guess," Harry mumbled. "But you aren't—"

"An early night for you," Snape cut in, tugging the corner of the blankets out from under Harry's bottom and holding them back. "In."

Harry felt sick all over again. "Professor, you promised! You said you believed me!"

Dropping the blankets, Snape leaned forward and cupped Harry's face in his hands—something he'd never done before. "Look at me."

Harry looked; it was much harder to look worried with Snape's palms smashing his cheeks together.

"You _must_ trust me."

"I—I do."

"You _must_ obey. You must not ask questions. I heard every word you said." Snape gave him a gentle shake. "Every word."

Harry found it easier to look him in the eye this time. He nodded.

"An early night for you," Snape repeated. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Snape kept his hands on Harry's face for an instant longer. Nodding tightly, he pulled back the covers and waited silently for Harry to lie back. He tucked the blankets under Harry's armpits: the way he always slept. The room went dark again. Harry felt his glasses slipped from his nose, felt a warm hand on his forehead.

And then he was alone.

TBC…

* * *

**End Notes**: **Thanks for all of your continued support as I trudge my way through the end of this school year (it's been a doozy)...knowing that people are still reading and enjoying really helps me keep up with this story, so thanks for your reviews. **

**A special thanks to Tabitha (ObsidianEmbrace) for putting aside her own writing (and probably using toothpicks to keep her eyes open) just to beta this chapter... Her newest story Our Very Own Sirius Black is breathtaking and involves a lot of young Sirius/James' father mentoring/parenting action. Be sure to check it out! **


	18. What is Owed

**Chapter 18: What is Owed**

The crackling was everywhere. It came from the mist that had frozen into veins along the tree bark. The crackling was in the cold air—clammy, white, fish belly air that stuck to faces, gloved hands.

A massive cloud crept nervously across the wrinkled sky, having already poured its angry tears, soaking the tangled black hair and spattering the boy's glasses; the thunder had thrown its tantrum. The cloud had watched the scene below hours later; the thunder hadn't been shouting that time, but the man in the torn clothing had, his heels scraping in the mud as he was dragged off. The forest branches had waved a solemn goodbye to the passing storm, to the man being carried by the figures with gray faces. The cloud ignored them.

Another man with blacker hair, drier hair, was in the forest now. This man didn't seem to mind the lingering darkness. The sky rumbled once more—its final pout—and the cloud drifted from the scene.

The man remained. At least one of them had.

The strange cold crackled in Severus' kneecaps. It wasn't until he had been crouched and silent, crouched and still, for several minutes—an hour, perhaps—that Severus knew his age. Thirty-four years old was too young to notice the pain in one's kneecaps. But Severus could handle the effects of age on his body as long as his mind remained intact.

Meticulous. Isn't that what Professor Slughorn had written on his Potions essay after awarding Severus a handful of consecutive Outstandings? _Meticulous as always, Severus_. Yes, Severus had paid careful attention to detail, even then. Someone had to. Somehow, however…somehow Severus' meticulousness had landed him next to a tree that surrounded a clearing in the Forbidden Forest. Judging by the half-smothered pile of sticks that once fostered a fire and the few bits of parchment that were wrestling with the yew leaves in the wind, this was a lived-in clearing. An empty clearing. Silent, save the crackling.

A piece of blowing newspaper skittered to a halt over the toe of Severus' shoe. The Weasley boy's photograph grinned up at him through smeared ink. The rat on the boy's shoulder twitched. Severus snatched it, crumpled the little idiot's smile between his fingers; he shoved the damp wad into the pocket of his robes.

So Harry _had_ been telling the truth.

The forest was still murky with darkness; it was well after midnight. But as Severus ran his thumb over a strip of bark, he knew.

Ice had already formed in the grooves. It was August. It was the middle of summer, and Severus could still see the gentle smoke of his breath steaming round his face—not as cloud-like as it had been an hour ago—but, still, it was there.

His knuckles had cramped gray around his wand. He wouldn't move yet. If Black didn't appear at sun-up, Severus would return to the boy. He would bring with him news of which he already knew. News of which he had known for an hour or more.

Dementors weren't allowed within one hundred feet of the Forbidden Forest, unless ordered by the Minister of Magic himself. It would take at least a dozen of them to create the type of icy mist now melting and sweating down the bark. Perhaps more, judging by how slowly the frost was melting. How had the Minister known?

A small tawny owl darted from a nearby tree to peck at a half-eaten leg of poultry now covered in dirt, lying several meters away from its newspaper wrapping. Its black eyes flashed in the darkness; it stabbed at the cold meat once more and flew away.

Yes, Severus knew. He knew, and he was relieved.

He wanted to be glad.

A gentle breeze fluttered the water-swollen pages of a book that was lying near the dead fire.

Severus would remain hidden, waiting, until sun-up. He owed the child that much.

* * *

"I had it _right_ here—yesterday. Pinned to my—" Harry huffed. "…bloody—" He reached further, straining his shoulder and not caring. "…stupid—" Another huff. "…wall!"

_Perhaps you filed it away with the rest of the important documents you've crumpled into that rubbish heap underneath your bed…_

Harry sat back on his heels and knuckle-swiped the sweat forming at his fringe, frowning in annoyance. Even when Snape was completely out of the Dungeons, that voice remained. Smirked at Harry from his bookshelf. Scowled at him from the perfectly compiled _stack_ of papers underneath Harry's bed, thank you very much.

"That's how I keep things organized," Harry grumbled unnecessarily, as there was no one in the room to hear his explanation.

A flame on the wall flickered with skepticism. A twitching, orange eyebrow.

Clamping his tongue between his lips, Harry clutched the mattress this time as he shoved his free arm in a bit further and felt around for a second stack of papers that might have slid off from the master pile. A bit more of a reach…

Harry jerked his arm out. "Fuck," he hissed, sucking in air through his teeth as he squeezed the upturned palm attached to the finger that was oozing blood around a jagged cut. Just what he wanted: a new lightening-bolt scar. Now he wouldn't have to lift his fringe to identify himself. He would simply wave at people.

Brilliant.

Angry at the stinging pain, Harry aimed several good kicks at whatever had gouged him.

Teeth? A rusty razor blade? Shards of glass? No matter. Harry might as well have been sticking his bare foot into one of Dudley's manky, one-eyed teddy bears, for all the vigor he'd launched into those kicks.

A soft thud sounded against the wall; something rolled along the stone floor—parchment, maybe.

_Your self-control is despicable, boy._

"Right," Harry mumbled tiredly as he let his cheek drop onto the edge of the mattress, his foot still wedged underneath the bed. "Go away." The edge in Harry's tone, however, did nothing to ward off the stupidity he felt at carrying on a conversation with a wall-lantern.

Shame wrung out his insides. He felt a bit like Dudley at the moment. All this grumbling, and now kicking. Many months had passed and yet the f-word still tasted like soap when he said it, so Harry wasn't at all certain where _that_ came from.

Harry wasn't a morning person, but, really, he wouldn't have done that in front of Snape, especially after the heap of trouble Harry had got himself into the night before.

Aurors didn't lose their tempers so easily, Snape had once told him when the two of them were discussing the duties of a dark wizard catcher. Of course, his professor had turned the discussion into a _you-had-better-hold-it-together-or-you-shall-never-be-one_ lesson. Harry had wrinkled his nose through as much of the lecture as he had dared.

Let's see, then.

Aurors valued honesty. Aurors valued trust. Aurors didn't make excuses for their mistakes. Harry might have argued that Aurors probably didn't have someone trailing behind them packing a good wallop or twenty to serve as a reminder for all of those mistakes. Wisely, he hadn't.

Harry bit his lip, wilting with embarrassment. He'd promised himself he wouldn't think about last night, even if he supposed he had deserved it. Snape hadn't been joking; Harry wasn't soon forgetting this one. Not at all.

_Aurors do not sulk_, _now, do they, Mr. Potter?_

"They don't melt off their fingernails from brewing too many potions either, I'll bet."

Smiling into the rumpled quilt, Harry enjoyed his bit of safe cheek. He blew out a deep breath and sat up straight. Right. No need to begin the morning a moody berk, flung over his four-poster bed like a dish flannel.

He glanced at his bedside clock—5:30 a.m. A solid two hours, at least, before Harry usually saw the light of day.

_There's your early night for you_, he thought.

Diving belly-down onto his mattress, Harry balanced on his elbows as he surveyed the pile of odds and ends—okay, so it _was_ mostly rubbish—that he had kicked into view. Harry fished through the heap one-handedly. Socks: flung toward the hamper. Two quills and an empty roll of parchment: shoved back into a cloud of dust and darkness.

"—the hell is this?" Hoisting up his middle to balance on both elbows now, Harry shoved his glasses further onto his nose and squinted speculatively at a flattened crisps wrapper that must have escaped from his trunk at some point. "Back you go, then," Harry murmured as he hung over the edge of his bed and flicked the piece of rubbish in the same direction as he had the parchment.

"Oy!" His palm barely kept the rest of him from tumbling as he scooted forward to snatch up a wadded-up front page of the _Daily Prophet_. Shaking out the folds with a few good snaps of the wrist, Harry scanned the headline.

_**St. Mungo's Continues Investigation of Stolen Vials of Scrofungulus Antibiotic**_

"Hang on—gross," Harry concluded, making a face at the horrid-sounding disease. He bit the corner of his lip, disappointed. This wasn't the newspaper he was looking for at all.

Days ago, the headline had been interesting—exciting, even, considering Ron's family had been waving and smiling up at Harry from the front page of the _Daily Prophet_—but now, that photograph was vital. And all because it showed a picture of a rat with a missing toe.

If only Harry had asked Sirius to let him borrow that newspaper. If only that sodding toe would have seemed more important last night, rather than this morning when Harry sat up out of a dead sleep and suddenly remembered Hadrian's numbing solution—the numbing solution that that dodgy, red-faced bloke had once given to Peter Pettigrew's mother to numb the pain in her leg.

Or hadn't given to _her_…

Crumbling the newspaper—the wrong newspaper—into his fist, Harry threw it against the wall; he dangled over his bed for a long, frustrating moment. His forefinger throbbed with a stinging heartbeat. He touched his thumb to the cut, now darkened with dried blood.

And then he saw it: a large, open safety pin sticking out of the waistband of his very old, soiled Dudley-jeans. The jeans Snape had shrunk for him during detention last year. But it wasn't the pin that mattered, injured fingers aside. It was the trousers.

He knew where that photograph could be.

Bouncing off of his bed, Harry kicked the remaining dust-covered items back underneath his bed before changing into a fresh t-shirt and jeans and wiggling his feet into the trainers that were still mud-caked and drying by the hearth in Snape's chambers. Scraping away as much of the mud as he could—no need to experience the _look_ Snape would give him if his professor saw bits of dried dirt on the rug—Harry laced up his trainers and hurried toward the door to the Dungeon corridor.

He stopped. Turned. He remembered.

Snape's door was still closed; locked, no doubt. The fireplace was black and cold, but the lanterns on the wall were still lit; no more than a wisp of a flame flickered on each wick. Even after they both went to bed, the main sitting room of Snape's chambers usually remained bright enough for Harry to make out the patterns on the rug.

Harry's eyes scanned the room for signs of life. The only bare hook on the hall tree was waiting patiently for Snape's cloak, unconcerned, as if it were used to receiving the man's outer garments at any odd time after midnight. Two splattery shoe prints remained on the rug next to the hearth; aside from that, no other shoes—larger shoes—had been kicked off by the door.

Didn't mean much, though. For all Harry knew, Snape slept in his shoes.

_Wake me next time_.

Isn't that what Snape had told Harry to do? Harry wasn't vomiting or anything, but Snape would want to know if Harry trekked to the laundry chamber before six in the morning. And even if Snape became sour and shouting, Harry could smile at his professor and remind Snape that he _had_ remembered, at least.

Shrugging, Harry kept his footsteps quiet as he walked over to Snape's bedroom door. Resting his forehead against the wood, Harry knocked. Hardly the rap of a knuckle.

The tiny lantern flames danced with amusement. Even the dark shapes on the wall seemed to laugh at Harry this time, great shadow bellies that trembled.

Most of the time, Snape didn't bother to knock on Harry's door; he just barged right in as if he owned the place.

So what if he did.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Harry gave the door three solid thumps with his fist. Even after a minute of waiting, there was no answer.

Harry tried the doorknob. It clicked, swung open a bit.

Blinking in surprise, Harry pulled back his hand, clenching it into a fist, cracking his knuckles with uncertainty. Another gentle push of the door, and Harry might be seeing his professor in his pants. He grimaced at even the thought of such an atrocity.

"Professor?" he croaked, his nose pressed into the crack in the door.

No answer.

That was all the proof Harry needed. After all, Snape had once heard Harry whisper a swearword from two rooms and a corridor away. He would, without a doubt, hear the click and squeak of his bedroom door opening.

Snape wasn't asleep. He wasn't there.

Pushing the door further open with a fingertip, Harry peeked inside. He was right. A dark green quilt lay across the pillows without so much as a mussed corner. Harry had never seen Snape's bedroom before, and he was disappointed to find that it looked very much like the Slytherin dormitory, except this room only contained one large bed without posts.

Snape had three shelves full of books hanging above his bedside table. The only word that was large enough for Harry to make out on one of the spines was Dostoyevsky—a last name, probably—and Harry certainly couldn't pronounce it. Snape's dressing table was taller than Harry's and was missing a mirror. Some sort of wooden box lay open on the flat top. Harry smashed his lips together, tilted up his chin to peer inside; from where he stood, he couldn't see a thing in that box.

Apart from the rag rug that had been turned up at the edge, Snape's bedroom appeared as if no one had stepped inside all day.

_No one _has_, stupid_, Harry chided himself.

All of a sudden, the curiosity that had pinged like a tiny hammer in Harry's chest faded into something else, something that turned his hands clammy and his stomach to marmalade. He had honestly expected to find a Snape-sized blob under the quilt, not a chilly, empty room.

He didn't care about the box anymore.

Backing out of the threshold, Harry closed the bedroom door without a sound. He stood, pulling at a bit of fringe on the rug with the sole of his trainer.

The flames on the wall seemed brighter. They twitched expectantly. But Snape's voice was absent this time, leaving Harry to grapple with no one but himself. His stomach growled. He was anything but hungry.

Glancing down, Harry made a face at the second, louder grumble. "Oh, shut up, will you?"

But stomachs couldn't answer back either. He spared one last glance at the empty hook on the coat rack. "He's fine," Harry muttered. No one spoke. Nothing twitched. Including Harry.

He kept breathing, though. He breathed and he thought.

Snape was fine. After all, Snape was Snape.

And he would be back soon.

It was those three thoughts that sent Harry toward the laundry chamber. Those three and a fourth: a missing toe.

* * *

Harry had thought that Dobby was the only house elf who admired him to the point that the elf would gladly lie face down in a puddle just so Harry wouldn't have to get his feet wet—a fact that both shocked and shamed Harry to the highest degree.

But he'd been wrong.

As Harry climbed the staircase leading to the first floor, his arms straining around the stack of freshly laundered clothing that had been folded for him, the red and gold ribbons that held together his trousers and t-shirts fluttered in front of his glasses again.

"Let us be delivering your clothes, Mr. Potter, sir," the elves had chorused, squeezing their hands together and watching with round, worried eyes as Harry had balanced the heavy pile in his arms, pretending, for the sake of the elves' nerves, as though he were carrying a bag of feathers.

If Harry had thought Dobby's fussing over him had caused his face to turn redder than ever, he prayed he wouldn't suddenly run into a mirror; after that trip to the laundry chamber—his first and last—his face was surely the color of an eggplant.

Red _and _gold ribbons. Like a Christmas gift.

Several kilometers of corridor, it seemed, separated Harry from the elves now, yet the their cries of distress continued to trail after him like a tag-along infant, tripping over its feet.

The shiny end of a ribbon lifted with a gentle breeze as Harry rounded a corner; it tucked itself over the rim of his glasses.

Stopping, Harry sighed, shifted the pile in his arms and shook his head from side-to-side trying to dislodge the ribbon before the corner poked his eye out. No luck.

Swearing under his breath, Harry lifted the pile as high as he could; one more shake of his head…

"Oh!"

Spectacles, laundry, books, and Harry's bum all hit the ground at the same time. Harry shook his head once more, this time to clear the buzzing in his ears. He'd bitten his tongue.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry. We've done it again, it seems."

Harry felt his glasses settle gently onto his nose; he blinked in surprise at the face that turned out to be quite close to his own.

"My eyes were on this book instead of whoever was in front of me," Professor Lupin explained, his eyes narrowed apologetically. He twisted his wrist a bit to show Harry the cover of the book he'd been reading.

_**Blasting Boggarts by Aurelius Godfrey**_

"At least we know it's interesting," Professor Lupin smiled, still crouched, his hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry tried to mirror Professor Lupin's grin but could only manage a cracked plate face. His backside had begun to throb a bit, but he didn't mind that nearly as much as the sight of his clothing strewn about the floor—underpants and all.

As if reading Harry's mind, Professor Lupin's face drooped slightly, his smile fading. "Here…" He reached behind him, withdrawing his wand. A gentle flick and Harry's laundry was once again bundled and laced together. "You hit the ground awfully hard," Professor Lupin muttered. "Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," Harry lied. He took a hold of Lupin's outstretched hand and let himself be helped up. Without thinking, he winced and jerked his arm as a sharp sting jolted through his finger.

Professor Lupin peered down at Harry's open palm. "No wonder the wincing…and rightly so. Ouch."

Harry squinted down at the jagged thing. He supposed Lupin was right.

"Did that happen just happen?"

"Earlier…"

"Is it sore?"

"No, sir," Harry fibbed, curling his injured finger into a fist, away from Professor Lupin's prodding thumb.

Lupin let Harry's hand fall. He pressed his lips together; his eyes shone kindly as though he were remembering something.

Harry looked away, embarrassed. Snape was right again: Harry really was pants at telling lies.

"I'm still no good at healing spells," Lupin began, stooping to pick up the two books that had fallen out of his hands. "But I've got a skin-repairing solution in my classroom wardrobe that'll be just the ticket. And," he continued, "if you just hold that bundle by the knot, it should be easier to carry." He brushed his hair away from his eyes. "With your good hand, of course…"

"Thanks, but I've a plaster in my trunk," Harry tried again. "I'll just use that—"

"If Madame Pomfrey got a look at that cut and knew I'd let you walk away with it untended, she'd have my head, with the hair attached."

Harry wanted to protest that he had his own skin-repairing solution—he'd even brewed some himself—but he knew an order when he heard one. Even if it was spoken through a smile.

He followed Professor Lupin halfway down the corridor to his classroom. Harry was surprised to find that the door had been left slightly ajar. Snape always locked his classroom door when he left it, even for a minute. He'd probably station Fluffy, the three-headed dog, in front of it if he could.

Harry sniffed in amusement to himself.

Professor Lupin turned a bit, planting his hands on his hips. "Ah. Well, you'd think I'd have my books sorted by now." He nodded toward the lopsided hill of volumes stacked on top of a row of desks. "Professor Lockhart left dozens of his books. Most are in that pile."

"Start a bonfire," Harry said before he could stop himself. Chuckling, Lupin raised both eyebrows as if to agree. Harry smiled. It was nice to know that grownups could laugh too.

"Let's see to that scratch, shall we?" Professor Lupin's face was still beaming with mirth as he collected the almost-empty vial of skin-repairing solution from a small wardrobe in the back of his classroom. "Just a bit left, but it should do."

"Does that work?" Harry piped up. He'd caught sight of a small antique radio with two plastic knobs on its front while Professor Lupin had been searching for medicine.

"Professor Snape brewed this at the beginning of the month," Lupin claimed as he turned the corked vial over and over in his hands. He'd misunderstood. "So it should work quite well, I'd imagine."

Harry stared at him, forgetting the radio for a second. "Snape gave that to you?"

Thumbing the cork, Lupin gave Harry a half-smile before handing the solution over. "Hang on a moment," Lupin mumbled with a snap of his fingers. "You'll need to clean that cut first." He strolled over to the wardrobe for a second time.

Somehow knowing that Professor Lupin wouldn't mind, Harry sidled over to the radio and turned one of the knobs until he heard a soft click.

"It's charmed."

Harry jerked his hand away; the radio blared a static protest. "Sorry," Harry blurted, stuffing his hand into his back pocket. "Is it mucked now?"

"Oh, don't be sorry," Lupin said through the bag of gauze he was holding in his teeth. He nudged the wardrobe door closed with his foot and let the bag drop into his empty hand. "I just meant—here," he set the bag and the sterilizing potion next to the radio. "Watch this. It can't run on electricity, so…"

One tap of Professor Lupin's wand and the radio cleared its throat and came to life.

A shrill singer warbled a high note over the sound of an orchestra.

Harry made a face.

"Opera," Lupin explained, his eyes shining. He reached for the potion. "Your hand, sir."

Obeying, Harry held his breath.

Grinning knowingly, Professor Lupin popped the cork from the vial. "Just a quick sting; it'll be over in a flash," he said gently. "Promise."

The radio beeped at them from behind, silencing the soprano and whoever was unlucky enough to accompany her.

Harry helped hold the gauze underneath his cut to catch any cleaning solution that dripped.

"_We interrupt this program to inform our listeners that notorious murderer Sirius Black has at last been taken into custody and is being held at the Ministry of Magic under maximum security. No one is certain where Sirius Black was captured, though witnesses claim to have spotted him near Hogsmeade village only yesterday…"_

The potion poured over Harry's cut, stinging his fingers and splashing onto his trainers. Purple smoke curled in front of Professor Lupin's face, but he didn't seem to notice. The man stared at the radio, his lips the color of ashes.

The empty vial slipped from his fingers and shattered against the stone floor.

"—_The Minister of Magic has ordered all Dementors to delay carrying out the sentence until all evidence against the murderer Black is reexamined…"_

Lupin's eyes latched onto Harry's and held them; his parchment lips pressed together; his Adam's apple sank into his throat.

Whatever the announcer said next, Harry didn't hear a word of it, for he was already shoving open the classroom door. The few bits of glass that had stuck against the soles of Harry's trainers crunched beneath his feet as he willed his numb legs to keep moving forward, to ignore Professor Lupin's voice calling his name down the corridor.

The Entrance Hall was still dim and quiet with the early morning light peeking in through the tall windows. Harry's fingers tore at one of the wooden slabs that kept the front doors locked until sunrise. His hand was slick with sweat as he finally succeeded in jerking the lock open. Harry stared at the three heavy slabs he'd yet to pry open.

Growling in frustration at his own stupidity, he yanked his wand from the front pocket of his jeans. "Alohamora!" Harry shouted.

A chorus of happy clicks echoed through the hall. The double doors groaned as they slowly opened to reveal another set of clicks resounding nearly a quarter-mile away—front gate clicks. These were even louder than the first. Harry stared at the gate. He stared at the black robes in front of the gate.

The black robes turned.

Sucking in his breath, Harry grabbed the handles of both doors to throw them closed again, but then he changed his mind. He pulled the doors open further and stood there, listening to the sound of his own teeth clenching together. His own breathing in his ears.

Snape was walking fast now, his eyebrows twisted together. He stopped when he reached the top step.

Harry glared up at him, his chest rising and falling in time to Snape's breaths. Snape's eyebrows hooked together even further, like two crooked question marks. It was the stupidest face Harry had ever seen. And he wasn't the least bit frightened of it. Harry grit his teeth harder and shook his head the tiniest bit.

Snape's brows untangled as he lifted his chin. All questions drained from his face, as if he already knew. Snape nodded toward the Entrance Hall. "Inside."

"I'm not moving."

Neither of them breathed. Not even a bird chirped.

Harry stared at the dark rings under Snape's eyes and waited for the man's nostrils to grow into saucers, for his eyes to turn into black marbles. But his professor's face didn't even twitch. Without a word, Snape moved forward, his hand reaching out to steer Harry along with him. Harry jerked his shoulder away, glaring again.

Snape pursed his lips, sighing through his nose.

Harry's swallow hurt his throat. "You're a liar."

Snape ran his hand over his eyes and down his face, exhaling once more. He gazed over the top of Harry's head. The circles under his eyes grew darker somehow.

"You are," Harry croaked, so angry that he didn't even care about the hand that was sure to reach around at any minute and smack him sore. "You expect me to listen to you all the time, but you never tell me what's going on—"

Snape lowered his eyes.

"—and then—" Harry swallowed again, shaking his head. "—then you go mental and whack me for lying, when you're an even bigger liar. I'm pants at it, remember?" He spat. "You said so yourself."

"Stop." The command was tired, and Harry barely heard it. He didn't want to hear it. He wanted to stomp on it.

"I _told_ you the truth!" Harry shouted. "I always tell you the truth, and you don't even care. You went and turned him in anyway after I told you he was innocent!" He jerked his arm away from Snape's grasp so hard that he bumped his back into the door. "Sirius would have killed me if he weren't, you know, I was with him for two hours! But you don't care what I say. You haven't a bloody clue—"

"STOP!"

At once, it was all there: the pincer-grip on Harry's arms, the flared nostrils, the trembling lips.

Harry tasted the memory of soap.

"Stop it!" Snape gave him a stern shake. He could feel Snape's breath on his face, and Harry was afraid to blink.

"That," Snape lowered his volume, giving Harry another jostle, a gentler one, "is enough."

Harry goggled at his professor.

Snape stared at him without blinking. "Enough."

Shaken, Harry jerked out a nod.

Snape loosened his grip. Harry dropped his eyes, his face turning red and hot as his brain came back into focus, smugly reminding him of every word he had just screamed out for Snape and Hagrid and probably even Dumbledore to hear, wherever he was.

Harry felt rather than saw Snape move again, but this time, Snape simply went back outside and stood at the top step. Peeking up through his fringe, Harry squinted at the bright orange sun warming the sky. He watched Snape out of the corner of his eye for another moment. Realizing his professor was going nowhere, Harry dragged his feet to the top of the stairs. Sparing once last glance at Snape, Harry sat on the cold step.

He pressed a bit of mud into the stone, feeling awfully rotten.

A long while passed with neither of them saying anything. The birds started chirping again. Something blurred in front of Harry's glasses. He looked up at the bit of wrinkled newspaper fluttering near his nose. Slipping it from Snape's fingers, Harry glanced down at a rather smudged version of the very photograph he had hung over his pillow, before it had gone missing. Harry couldn't even make out Ron's smile anymore.

"Where—"

"He was gone before I even stepped foot into the forest." Snape glanced down, holding his outer robes draped over his arm. His smart shirt was rumpled.

"Did…" Harry licked his lips awkwardly. "…did you know—"

"That Black had been captured?" Snape shook his head. "Not officially. The Headmaster sent me his Patronus at half-past five. I was informed then."

"So, then, you've been…" Harry trailed off, feeling like an idiot.

"All night."

Rough fingers caught Harry's chin before it touched his chest. Harry squinted into a face that appeared much sterner than it had ten minutes ago. For some reason, it made Harry feel better.

"Need I say a word?" Snape prompted slowly.

"I won't do that again," Harry said, for once finding no need to plead his case. "Really. I'm sorry."

A studying pause. Snape nodded once and released Harry's chin.

The sun was blazing hot now, cooking the top of Harry's head.

"I lost mine," Harry mumbled, dejected. He traced the smudged blob where the rain had marred the rat's picture. "Ron's family's picture was hanging over my bed, but I can't find it now."

"Trousers?"

"Maybe," Harry decided. "I tried to look in all my pockets."

"Never mind."

"I do, though," Harry said sadly, trying to smooth what Snape was able to salvage of Sirius' newspaper. He gave a sidelong glance toward Snape. "I believe him. He—he was friends with my dad."

All Harry could see of Snape was his hair.

"I know."

"I wanted to show you the picture of the missing toe," Harry explained, shielding his eyes from the sun. "I wanted you to believe me."

"Whatever makes you think I don't?"

Biting his lips together, Harry stared at Snape, who, in turn, raised his eyebrow, appearing no more impressed by Harry than he had since Harry had first met him. "I was thinking of…erm…" Harry tried to gather his thoughts, encouraged by this turn of events. "…the numbing solution that Hadrian mentioned. Remember?"

Another single nod.

"Remember that chopped finger story that Sirius told me? And Pettigrew?"

"Desist with the rhetorical questions, Potter."

"Er…yeah, sorry," Harry spoke quickly. "I'll bet Hadrian knows more than he lets on. He's completely dodgy. I can tell."

Snape rolled his eyes.

"Can we—" Harry paused. "I mean…_may_ we go see him? I won't break anything this time, I swear. And if you tell me to sit down and shut up, I promise I won't move. And if I'm a bother, you can pummel me; I won't even complain—"

Pressing his fingers to his temple, Snape closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he was frowning at Harry. "Where were you planning on going this morning, when you tried to leave the castle?"

"Erm…"

"The truth, young man."

Harry flushed, looked away. "To find you, I guess."

"Find me..." Snape repeated. "Why?"

Harry shrugged, pressing mud into the stone again. "I just wanted to make sure you believed me."

"You weren't heading toward the Ministry, or anywhere else?"

Harry examined his professor as if he'd gone round the twist. "You'd kill me if I left the grounds. I don't have a death wish."

"Hm," Snape concluded, standing. "Have you got your wand?"

"'Course." He held it out for Snape to see, only to jerk a bit when Snape grabbed his wrist, peering down at the dried blood that was smeared across the cut on his finger and down his palm. Harry squinted down in surprise as well. "It's not what you think…"

"Frankly," Snape began, uncorking side-by-side vials of sterilizing and skin-repairing solutions, "I don't want to know."

Harry winced through the ten-second repairing. Wiggling his healed finger, Harry gave Snape an appreciative grin. His professor hadn't said it, exactly, but to Harry the approval was clear: he was going with Snape.

TBC…

* * *

**Author's Note**: If anyone is actually still reading after my many months of going AWOL, bless you. :) I've missed this so much, and I hope you all enjoyed the chapter.


	19. A Hint of Irony: Part I

**Chapter 19: A Hint of Irony: Part I**

Breakfast was a hurried affair. A discarded napkin sat slumped and wrinkled next to Harry's glass of half-drunk pumpkin juice, some of which had splashed over the rim onto the table as Harry had poured it from the pewter pitcher.

Snape had removed his own napkin from his lap and mopped up the dull orange puddle himself, flapped the fabric to perform a quick _Scourgify_ charm, and continued chewing the crust of his toast in silence.

Harry dug his shoulder blades into the back of his chair and waited.

"Finish your breakfast."

Wrinkling his nose, Harry studied the abandoned lump of scrambled eggs congealing to his plate as if to belong somewhere. Harry stole a glance at Snape through his fringe. "I think I'm full."

Snape drew in a deep breath through his nose, swallowed the last of his toast through a sigh. "You think?"

"I mean..." Harry plucked his hands out from underneath his thighs to scratch at his cheek. His nails were growing, now that he'd forced himself to sit on them more than he nibbled at them. "…I know."

Lowering his chin, Snape twisted his lips together. "You know."

Harry glanced at the clock on the wall for the twentieth time. "Yeah," he muttered; his eyes settled on Snape again. "I think."

Snape stared at him.

"Can we go, then?" Harry asked as he scraped his chair away from the table.

The second hand grew louder in the silence; Harry bit his lips together as he tapped his thumb on the table in syncopation to the steady _tick_.

Snape rotated his fork between his fingers without making a sound against the plate.

"What are you thinking about?" Harry finally asked. "Your forehead's all wrinkled up again."

"Stop that noise," Snape grumbled into his coffee cup before draining it. "Exchanged one bloody habit for another."

Harry glanced at the fingers that immediately retreated into his fist. "Right. Sorry."

"Finish what's in your cup—I'm not about to see my vitamin supplement wasted."

Downing the rest of his juice in two gulps, Harry even held the goblet upside down and allowed the last few drops to drip onto his tongue, easily ignoring the eyebrow of disapproval from across the table.

"I can only taste the pumpkin juice," Harry reported. "You sure you put a whole vial in?"

"I could certainly make it taste worse…"

Harry let this one wither and die.

"Long sleeves," Snape instructed, pushing away from the table and fastening the cuffs at his wrists. Both buttons. He stood, eyes raking absently over the bookshelves. "Double-knot your trainers."

"I do anyway…"

"A triple-knot, then. A tight one."

Harry made a face. "Fancy spelling them off me later?"

The back of Snape's hair twitched as he finished buttoning his collar in silence.

Remembering his promise to his professor, Harry allowed the questioning smirk on his face to fade quickly, curling into the air. He stooped to secure his trainers, making sure to pull down his sleeves, which he'd bunched at the elbows, once his shoes were proper.

And then it dawned on Harry. "You think Hadrian might get sore and hex you if you prod him about Pettigrew?"

Snape turned on his heel. "Why do you ask?" The circles under Snape's eyes were heavy this morning, Harry noticed; dark, like bruises.

Glancing away, Harry shrugged. "Dunno. I was just thinking about…"

A pause. "Yes?"

_The conversation behind the curtain_, Harry's brain supplied. But his mouth was quicker. "My sleeves…" It was almost the truth.

It was Snape's turn to make a face. "What about them?"

"Well," Harry began, tugging at the material that encircled his wrists.

Without waiting for an answer, Snape crossed the room,grabbing Harry's thinking time out of the air and chucking it over his shoulder. "Your winter coat wouldn't protect you from even the mildest stinging jinx." Snape sliced his wand through the air; the three open doors in the study slammed closed and locked, along with every visible drawer.

"Oh. Why the sleeves, then?"

One last flick of Snape's wand turned down the lanterns on the wall. "They're calling for rain in Dublin." He tilted his head in a way that threatened inquisition.

But before Harry could supply another "oh" or Snape could question Harry's rubbish sleeve-talk further, a _pop_ sounded at the fireplace. A scroll of parchment bobbed lazily in the air. The loose knot and dangling twine immediately gave away its sender.

"I've got it," Harry said loudly enough to garble Snape's order to check the name on it first. A few swishes of his trainers against the rug and one papery _snatch_ later, and Harry's suspicions were confirmed. "It's from Ron, see?" Harry held up the unfurled letter so Snape could see the signature at the bottom. "He hardly ever writes in the summer, but I know how he ties his knots; I didn't have to check," he mumbled in report, already reading.

"How impractical of me to suggest it," Snape's sour grumble tapered off as he unlocked and stepped into his sleeping chambers to collect whatever he'd forgot.

"He's home from Egypt," Harry called out.

The squeaking of Snape's dresser drawer was the only response.

Harry grinned as his eyes scanned over Ron's latest account of Fred and George's pranking experiment with toilet paper and pepper-up potion.

_Rotten luck_, _Percy_, Harry thought. He read on a then his grin melted away. He felt Snape's presence in the study again, watching him. The parchment crinkled loudly in the stillness.

Harry lifted his eyes. Snape's cloak was only half-buttoned. His hands hung by his thighs.

Licking his lips, Harry glanced down at the letter one more time to make sure he'd got it correct. "Scabbers," Harry muttered stiffly; his lips felt like twigs.

"Scabbers?"

"Ron's rat," Harry explained, unable to look away from the gleam in Snape's eyes. "The one that's missing a toe. It's gone."

* * *

He could never quite manage the cold.

He had gotten used to the bland, pasty quality of the prison food; his eyes had eventually adjusted to the thick darkness that made everything look brown. As a distraction, he had fabricated countless stories in his head of what life would be like with Harry, once he plucked up the courage to give that shithole the slip.

He'd allowed the memories of James and Remus and Lily, even tiny Harry, to intoxicate him, flow over his parched and petrified brain like cool water.

Silly memories.

James' glasses fogging over when he flew Chaser. The shy, pleased smile that had flashed across Remus' face, turning his cheeks red, whenever he'd gotten an Outstanding on one of his essays. The wispy, black curl that fell across Harry's soft forehead.

The gurgle of laughter that filled the room each time Sirius tried to blow the hair away from those green eyes that watched everything, waited for the grown-ups to clap for him and smile and kiss his cheeks.

Sirius had even learned to ignore the sharp points of the stone floor digging into his shoulders when he had tried to sleep each night.

At least Cornelius Fudge had placed a smooth wooden bench, long enough for Sirius to stretch out his long legs as he slept, in the tower holding cell of the Ministry of Magic. But the cold, though. The cold, this time, was unbearable. Kept him from dozing longer than a quarter of an hour at a time.

Even Sirius' breath shivered, clawing against his throat, begging for the warmth of his lungs. He watched the gray shadows float along the ceiling, one after the other, always at the same slow pace, like raindrops sliding down a window.

After a while, the steam of Sirius' breath became less visible. The air warmed. Someone was coming.

Sirius pushed his back away from the wall, listening. His teeth unclenched; the skin of his arms pricked with gooseflesh: not from the cold, but from the lack of it.

The shadows skittered away.

"…believe you wish to see Mr. Black alive at his hearing?"

A scoffing chuckle echoed throughout the corridor. "Of course, Albus."

"Then, by all means…" Their voices grew louder, Dumbledore's, especially. "…see to it."

The edge of a turquoise velvet robe drifted across the bars of Sirius' cell, so close Sirius could have reached out and grab it from his place on the floor. Both men kept their backs to him.

Sirius pressed his toes into the floor, left bare ever since the Ministry officials confiscated his shoes to keep him from concealing any weaponry. His toes were as good as numb. Ten ice cubes scraping against the stone.

A throat cleared; pudgy hands twisted together behind pin-striped robes. "Your implication?" The Minister wasn't laughing anymore.

"Unless a Dementor is performing the Kiss on a convicted criminal, I doubt one—or in this case twelve—would be found in such consistent close proximity to a wizard awaiting trial. . ."

"A murderer, you meant to say, Albus," Fudge corrected crisply, "one who has recently escaped a prison full of guards. I would hardly say that twelve Dementors is excessive."

Dumbledore clasped his hands together, mimicking the Minister's stance; his fingernails were clean and shining in the scanty torchlight. Sirius was suddenly very aware of the grime that darkened his skin, stained his toenails.

"A valid point, Cornelius," Dumbledore commented, rocking back on his heels. "I cannot help but mention, however, that the Dementors were the very guards that allowed Mr. Black to escape without a trace. Hundreds, were there? If I'm not mistaken?"

Silence followed. Sirius could hear Dumbledore's robes dragging against the iron bars.

"With the Dementors deadening one's senses, not to mention his memory, the Wizengamot would have difficulty, no doubt, extracting valuable, _factual _evidence from the criminal in question," Dumbledore continued. "We shan't forget the disappointing case of several of Voldemort's most dangerous Death Eaters unable to stand trial years ago. . ."

The air around Sirius seemed to cringe; Fudge sucked in his breath, choked by the most infamous name, as well as the memory of the Ministry's embarrassment.

"What—" Fudge cleared his throat again. "—what do you suggest, then, Dumbledore?"

A wooden stool suddenly popped into existence behind the headmaster. "As several weeks remain until the beginning of the new term at Hogwarts, I would be more than happy to see to the duty myself, Cornelius," Dumbledore proposed, already settling onto the stool and drawing his wand, resting it in his lap.

Sirius pressed his back against the wall once more, his heartbeat thudding against his forehead.

"That is," Dumbledore went on, "unless you find me unfit for the job?"

Whatever the Minister of Magic said next, Sirius didn't hear. He was concentrating on slowing his lungs.

"Severus has him," Dumbledore muttered in response. "He's safe."

Sirius' stomach constricted with a pang of jealousy. Helplessness. He understood. He understood and he hated it.

The sound of footsteps eventually grew fainter in the distance. The shadows didn't return. Sirius pushed against the wall to stand, taking a step toward the bars. His toes were tingling with feeling again. Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles flashed into the darkness of the holding cell. A smile tilted his lips as his long fingers slid between the bars.

Sirius stood there, saying nothing, his dirty hand enfolded in the warm skin. His throat swelled, ached.

"Patience," Dumbledore whispered. He released Sirius' hand and extracted a novel from his pocket, letting the pages flap open to the one he'd bookmarked.

Swallowing against the soreness that still gripped his throat, Sirius lay down on his wooden bench and stared at the domed ceiling. He could almost imagine floating candles above his head. He wiped at his eyes with a soiled sleeve. And then he fell asleep.

* * *

"I didn't tell Ron _anything_."

"I haven't said a word."

"You don't have to."

Snape's heels continued to chip the pavement; his face remained drawn and still.

"Even if I had, you really think Ron would have believed me? He'd have thought I was taking—" Harry licked his lips, hastily clearing away the foul word. "—he'd have thought I was joking, putting him on, you know?"

No answer.

"Tell Dumbledore," Harry pressed on, quite used to Snape's silence by now. "You could send him your Patronus, or use the coin to send him a message. Anything. He'll find Pettigrew and take him to the Ministry. You told me they have ways of making people tell the truth, remember?"

Steady, marching clicks.

"You can Summon things from any distance, right?" Harry squinted against the sun. "Summon Pettigrew. He's a rat—he's small; he'll zip through the air right quick."

At that moment, a bird glided right over Snape's head as if to prove Harry's point. Snape didn't notice.

Frowning now, Harry cracked his knuckles as he walked, knowing very well that Snape didn't like him doing that.

The area was starting to look familiar; this was only Harry's second visit to Ireland, first time winding through this particular alleyway, but judging by the grass sticking up between the cobblestones, he could tell that these backstreets weren't trod on too often.

Harry pretended to read the street signs, engaging in another round of knuckle popping, slower this time. Louder. "Or... I suppose we could let him get away. That makes loads of sense."

He could feel Snape's glare baking the left side of his face. Or perhaps it was the sunlight that had bleached the sky into a hot, massive cloud.

So much for Snape's rain prediction.

"These sleeves are stupid." Looking straight ahead, Harry shoved the cuffs far past his elbows. "It's hot as Hell." Spoken under his breath, the whisper danced naughtily around in his mouth.

Perhaps it had been heard. Harry hoped it had.

Gritting his teeth together, Harry made sure to keep up with Snape, his trainers flapping noisily against the pavement, his feet aching. Concentrating on the blister forming on his heel stopped him from saying anything else, so Harry kept up the pace, moving ahead.

For exactly three seconds.

Harry wiggled his shoulder blades against the cool bricks that were suddenly behind him as he tried to twist his upper arm out of the clutch of Snape's fingers; he turned his face away from the breath that _whooshed_ its annoyance right against Harry's fringe. Flicking a nervous right-left glance along the alley, Harry tried to keep his eyebrows pinched and serious.

"Precisely," Snape ground out. "Not a witness in sight. How unfortunate for you."

"You didn't say I couldn't ask questions."

"Correct; I didn't. Rather like Weasley's name never entered my vocabulary this morning." Snape's lips stiffened and paled as he leaned down. "So stop —" _Snatch_. "—putting words in my mouth."

"I d'n't," Harry slurred, tensing his jaw against the slight pressure of the fingers and thumb on his cheeks, tugging on Snape's wrist for good measure.

"We don't have time for this petty defiance you have decided to drag along, so speak plainly."

Harry scratched at his cheek once his face was free, trying to recall why he felt so angry.

He couldn't.

Harry looked away; his eyes found a beetle crawling on the ground. He pressed his teeth into his tongue. His fingers found their way into his jeans pockets.

Snape, however, wasn't exactly truthful about the time constraint, because he was still standing in front of Harry with his arms crossed, waiting.

A cooler breeze—a great deal cooler—gusted between the buildings, tickling the insides of Harry's ears. A tiny dot plinked against his jeans, darkening. Another. Then two more. Three. The raindrops spit and splattered, spread like a pox on the fabric.

The only heat that remained was radiating from Harry's face. He dragged his sleeves back down, as if he'd meant to do that all along. He peeked his eyes up.

Aside from the new raindrop pattern on Snape's shoulders, his professor hadn't moved a millimeter.

Jabbing his shoulder blades against the wall, Harry hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, blew out a breath. "I think I'm just. . ."

A pause. "You think. . ." Snape echoed slowly. But the voice lacked the mockery this time, just as it lacked concern for the chilling rain.

The voice, instead, helped Harry to lift his chin all the way. "I'm just tired of being chased all the time. I want to catch Pettigrew and free Sirius so I don't have to think about it anymore. And I just want to everything to be… I dunno. . ."

"Normal."

Harry swallowed hard, staring at the glistening cobblestone, the raindrops trickling down his glasses. He could feel Snape's eyes on him.

"Yeah." Harry nodded against his chest. "Normal." Wiping his wrists against the wet fringe now dripping water into his eyes, Harry flicked his eyes up a second time as Snape's black umbrella snapped open, hovering over both of their heads.

The sound of beating rain floated over them as they began walking again. Snape kept his hand on Harry's shoulder until they emerged from the darkness of the alley. For once, Harry had let it be. Neither of them spoke as they splashed along the sidewalk where Hadrian's shop stood at the end of the street.

They were almost to the front door when the top of Harry's head was suddenly cold and wet again. Flipping around, Harry found that Snape and his umbrella had paused a few paces behind him.

"What is it?" Harry called out.

Snape didn't move. Must not have heard him.

Even in the shadow of the umbrella, Harry could see the see that Snape's face had turned the color of chalk; his mouth hung open. Snape was gripping his own forearm, his nails as white as seashells.

Harry jerked around in a quick circle, squinting down the streets, looking for the dodgy bastard who must have thrown a hex in Snape's direction. He pulled his wand from the waistband of his trousers as he moved closer to his professor, sparing one last glance over his shoulder. By the time Harry looked back, Snape had straightened, released his arm. But the lines around his mouth were still deeply creased, and Harry noticed the color was still drained from Snape's face.

"What happened?" Harry asked again. "I can't see anyone."

"Never mind that." Snape's voice was thin as he pulled Harry out of the rain. Again.

"But you were holding your—"

"Come along."

Harry was about to argue once more, but a collage of newspaper photographs were in front of his nose all of a sudden, one in particular catching his attention. Harry's stomach tightened as he studied the tangled black hair, the dirty knuckles that gripped the bars of his cell. Sirius wasn't screaming in this photo.

The jiggling of the door handle brought Harry out of his momentary fog.

"Why's it locked?" Harry wondered as his eyes scanned over row after row of newspapers plastered on the insides of the shop windows. "Has he closed?"

"Not to my knowledge," Snape muttered; he performed a silent _Alohamora_.

The door creaked open, stubbing against something neither of them could see. Harry pushed against the door twice, watching it bounce against the jamb, before Snape's hand shot out, palming Harry's chest and pushing him a bit.

"Get back. And get out your—"

"It's out." Harry held his holly wand in front of Snape's face.

Giving the door a final, pointless push, Snape twisted his own wand between his fingers; he aimed just inside the half-meter of open space. "Stay back, Harry."

Standing near the curb now, Harry listened as something slid against the floor of Hadrian's shop.

The door eased open.

TBC…

* * *

**Author's Note**: So...I'm alive and kickin', believe it or not. Thank you very much for taking the time to leave reviews for the last chapter. I read them all, appreciate them all, and long for the days when I had a boring job that left me loads of time to respond. Sorry for taking so much time between posting chapters; I do promise that I'll never abandon this story; I literally think about this story every day. And, finally, since I've left you with a bit of a cliffhanger here, I promise to work as quickly as I can on Chapter 20. A special thanks to Amber (Squee-Bunny) for reading through this chapter and catching any grammar errors for me!


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